Conjurer (28 page)

In her outrage, Martha pounds her fists against the satin coverlet and rakes at the eiderdown with her still-shod feet.
Never Simms! Never, never! No matter how much my father may have desired the match. No matter how many times in the months ahead Simms seeks to craftily remind me of my “dear papa's” wishes. I will be the mistress of my fate. I'll rule my own house, and demand that Simms leave it. I will not listen to my father's dictums or wishes any longer
.

I'll never obey him again. And I'll never, ever permit Simms to make another mention of this odious matter
.

Then the fury of these emotions dissolves into panic.
Oh, Thomas!
Martha thinks.
Oh, help me! Help me!
She gazes upward while her body becomes increasingly inert, seeming to grow heavier and less mobile by the moment until she feels she's sinking down into the mattress, down through the floor, plummeting into the suffocating earth.
Oh, help me
, her heart cries as she tumbles into tortured sleep.

But, oh, what dreams rise up to trouble her there. She sees the little orphan boy succumb to a convulsive fit, but his face is then replaced by that of Eusapio Paladino in his own trance-like state. “Search no more!” the necromancer calls while his handsome features grow fishy and gray and his flesh turns soft and putrid. “I'm in a watery grave. Let me rest. Let me rest here in peace.” The voice sounds like bubbles in a brook, then the bubbles grow louder, gushing a grim crimson red as Lemuel Beale's percussion rifle explodes. Martha spins away in horror at the sight and finds herself suddenly awake, lying cold and uncovered, her petticoats twisted and bunched beneath her and her corset jabbing at her ribs.

“Martha, my dearest,” she hears Owen Simms murmur. “Your dreams have been worrying you again. Forgive me for entering your chambers without your permission, but I couldn't permit you to so torture yourself. I've brought a sleeping draught with me—so as not to disturb your maid. Take it, I beseech you, my dear. My dearest girl … You must have your rest …” Then she feels Simms's fingers touch her neck, holding her in place while she drinks the milky and cloying liquid.

The Shambles

“M
AR
…
MISS BEALE
…
I STOPPED
at your house and was told that you … I apologize if I've disturbed your—” Kelman calls out these halting words, then abruptly ceases his clumsy effort as he doffs his hat and bows while intently studying the threesome walking down the street toward him. Martha appears greatly changed; she steps slowly forward with a rambling and indecisive gait and looks so pale and languid as to seem ill. Beside her is a shorter woman with an open and jovial face, and between them trudges a little boy whose skin isn't fully white or fully black. Neither the child nor the other woman appears aware that Martha Beale is not herself.

“I was told I might find you at the orphanage … Again, my apologies if I've interrupted your outing.” Kelman continues to regard Martha with a penetrating gaze, but she merely looks lifelessly back. “Are you quite well, Miss Beale?”

“Mr. Kelman.” Martha fixes him with a vapid stare; she neither smiles nor offers her hand nor responds to his question. Instead, she turns sluggishly toward her companions, covering a yawn with her hand. “May I present Hannah Yarnell, and a pupil whom she named for Caspar Walne, the physician who devotes so much time to the children.” As Martha speaks, her tone remains flat and emotionless as though Kelman were the most causal of acquaintances. “Hannah, this is Thomas Kelman, the gentleman who initiated the search for my father.”

“I have disturbed your walk” is Kelman's perturbed reply.

“Miss Yarnell and I are journeying to the Shambles on Second Street,” Martha says in the same dull tone, “where I intend to purchase oranges for the children. We've heard that a ship arrived yesterday carrying a cargo from Spain. Oranges are certain to be among the ship's fare.” Then she adds a bleak “As you must have surmised, Mr. Kelman, this is my last excursion for some time.” She pauses. What she wants to speak about is Jacob Oberholtzer and the savage man she feels is being wrongly charged with her father's death, but all she hears clanging in her ears is Owen Simms's methodical words of argument.
The truth in this matter, Martha, cannot be avoided …
Then she continues the rebuke with her own woeful self-critique:
And who's to say that I am right in my intuition, and the remainder of the logical world wrong? I, who have so seldom been right or wise or prudent or clever
.

“I do thank you, Mr. Kelman,” Martha finally manages to say aloud, “for your aid and support. And I apologize if my father's secretary was overbrusque in his treatment of you.” Here, she stops again.
Owen Simms
, she thinks,
I cannot possibly be wed to Owen Simms! I will not! Indeed, I will not!
But instead of betraying that fierce sentiment, she murmurs a reasoned “Mr. Simms's greatest desire is to see my father's death resolved. Sometimes that wish causes him to seem high-handed and rude.”

“I was glad to be of service” is Kelman's courtly reply, but he observes Martha closely as he speaks. This is not the same woman who ardently sought his counsel. It's not the person with whom he's shared a private meal or walked in the garden or strolled among hothouse flowers. This is a Martha Beale in form but not in fact. Kelman is about to continue in a more probing manner when Hannah's small charge suddenly throws his hands skyward as if asking the tall man to pick him up.

“You seem to have made quite an impression, sir,” Hannah tells him. “Our Cai is not a demonstrative child.”

“May I carry him for you, Miss Yarnell?” Kelman bends down to the child. “That is, if you will permit my company on your excursion.” Again he looks searchingly at Martha, but it's Hannah who replies:

“We would be delighted to have you join us, sir,” while Martha merely removes her mute stare from Kelman's face and gazes unseeing at the street beyond.
Marry Owen Simms?
her mind cries out.
That I cannot do!

Along the cobbled streets that border the open-air market building known as the Shambles, dray horses stand puffing and blowing in the cold; crowded among them are butchers' wagons hung with venison, mutton, and pickled hams; fishmongers' carts; country buck-boards full of potatoes and cabbages packed in straw; oyster sellers' flat barrows piled with seaweed; wood crates containing live fowl and rabbits; and two-wheeled handcarts stacked with loaves of bread. Dogs and cats slink between the many large and small wheels, keeping wary eyes on the restless hooves of the horses while all manner of young people race in and out of the vendors' stalls: shopkeepers's boys sent on errands; ragtag brothers and cousins dodging from one patron to the next, begging for the chance to carry a parcel, find a hansom cab, or garner a stray coin or two. Some of the children wear long white aprons; some sport adults' high hats announcing their masters' trades; some have jackets; some do not. Those without not only appear sicklier and colder, but their faces and postures bear the unmistakable stamp of isolation and ostracism.

Martha stares at the noisy scene and feels her stomach contract in pity, although her sluggish brain seems incapable of forming words with which to express what she feels. So she doesn't look at Hannah or Kelman but simply plods ahead, wading stiffly through the trampled rushes that line the dirt-and-stone floor until she reaches a fruit vendor where she finds the promised oranges.

“These just arrived, madam,” she's told by the dark-suited merchant. “Sevilles for marmalades, sweet Chinas for eating, and Maltese whose flesh is as red as blood … They're extra, they are, the Maltese. Greatly favored by European royalty, I'm told.” The man is sizing her up while he studies her companions. The tall woman he recognizes as “quality,” but he's not certain how to gauge the ranks and relationships of the others.

“I will take them all,” Martha states, although her words maintain their dispassionate tone.

“Oh, no, Martha,” Hannah insists, stepping forward. “You're far too generous. We'll never be able to make use of all these oranges. One per child is sufficient—”

“I don't want sufficiency,” Martha insists. Her voice grows more strident. “I want abundance for these children. I want them to know what it is to have plenty.”

“Two, then. More than that may bring indigestion—and Rebecca's ire.” Hannah smiles as she makes this gentle reminder.

“No. No, I will buy them all. All of them in this shop.” Martha's pallid cheeks have turned mottled pink, and her green-gray eyes bright and hard. “You and Rebecca may do with them what you will; make marmalades and jams; pickle and sugar the rinds; throw the rotten ones to the pigs for all I care. I want those children to have a surfeit. Let them live like kings and queens for a space.” She spins back to the vendor. “Have them delivered to the orphanage on Thirteenth and Fitzwater Streets.” Then she yanks open her reticule and tosses out enough gold coins to purchase twice the amount of fruit in the stall. “And send a large box to the same address every time a decent cargo arrives.”

In the midst of this transaction, little Caspar crows from his perch in Kelman's arms, then points toward a young girl standing just outside the shelter of the stall's canvas awning. She regards the scene boldly, although she remains at a distance. “Is that your baby?” she asks Thomas Kelman.

“No.” It's Hannah who responds. “This is a foundling child. A Negro.”

The girl frowns slightly. “That doesn't mean he doesn't have a white papa.”

“That's true.” Hannah looks at Kelman as though seeking his advice, but the girl continues with a soft:

“I think the boy loves this man as much as he would his own father.”

“Would you like an orange?” Martha asks abruptly.

“My name is Ella” is the answer. “I've never tasted one.” But she makes no move to enter the fruit vendor's stall.

“Does your papa work here?” Martha probes.

Ella scowls but doesn't reply.

“Or your mother, perhaps?”

“I'm not an orphan” is Ella's sole response; then the need for human contact finally propels her into the shop. “Please. I would like to taste an orange.” She gazes up at Cai, who continues to stare down at her with the fascination younger children reserve for older ones; then she swiftly returns her attention to Martha. “You have not been here before, I think, miss?”

“No,” Martha answers as she turns unsteadily, negotiating a separate sackful of oranges for the little girl. The clearheadedness she experienced for a moment is quickly passing, and she can again feel the effects of the sleeping draughts Owen Simms prescribed. “No, I haven't.”

“You have a girl to do for you, then, miss? Or you are looking to engage one, perhaps—?” Then Ella interrupts her question with a swift dodging turn of her head. The motion is so rapid and defensive it almost appears as though she's been slapped.

Kelman looks in the direction Ella is staring. A group of women are walking there; and from their garish clothes and loud manner, he knows immediately what trade they are engaged in. “Do you know any of those ladies, Ella?” he asks as Martha and Hannah follow his glance.

“No” is Ella's defiant answer, although she keeps her face averted and her eyes on the ground. “They are not ladies, either.”

“Where is your mother?” Hannah asks her.

“At home. Where else would she be?” Ella blurts out, then all at once drops the oranges and plunges away, disappearing among the crowd.

“Thief!” someone shouts at her retreating figure, but Martha rallies, producing her own forceful cry:

“Let the child pass. She's running an errand for me.” Then her shoulders slump and her knees almost buckle, and she turns back and gazes emptily at Thomas Kelman once more. “It's time for me to return home. I've been sufficiently long on my outing.” She looks at Hannah. “Tell Rebecca she can blame me if the children grow spoiled.”

“Let me escort you,” Kelman says; he cannot bring himself to add “Miss Beale.” He knows he shouldn't say “Martha” in this public place.

“Thank you, no, Mr. Kelman. That would not be seemly—or befitting to my father's memory to be seen in the company of a recent acquaintance.” She pauses, her display of energy now spent. “You will apply to Mr. Simms, will you not, if you have further news concerning my father's death to impart? Or of this … this hermit …? Mr. Simms will be … he will be my ears and my mouthpiece for a while …”

“I would prefer to talk with you directly … should I gain information—”

“No. That will not be possible.” Martha seems about to speak further; instead, her gloved right hand reaches up and lightly touches her neck. “Let us say farewell, then, Mr. Kelman.” Then she summons what little remains of her strength and walks in a slow, straight line from the market building.

It's ruth who spots the girl running. Running and crying, then stumbling and nearly falling in her haste to escape the Shambles. “Stop, child!” she calls out, and hurries behind, catching Ella in her arms after a block-and-a-half chase. “Stop. Child. What ails you? Has someone done you harm?”

Ella stares up at the Negress. Her first instinct is to flee; her second is to rail against her captor; her third is to sag into the taller woman's arms. “A lady bought me oranges,” she finally manages to mumble.

Ruth gazes into the child's fearful eyes. “And were you afraid of what she might demand in exchange for the oranges?”

“No …” Ella looks down at her feet. “But she wanted to know about my mother …”

Ruth nods; she continues to hold the frightened girl. “What's your name, child?” she asks at length.