My Notorious Life (42 page)

—Go and answer it, I said to Maggie. —You know what to say.

Maggie opened it.

—Madame DeBeausacq? said a voice larded with authority.

—Madame does not live here, said clever Maggie. —And my mistress is not at home. Who may I tell her has called?

—Chief Matsell, said my visitor. —Please tell Madame that we know she is at odds with regulations and is under advisement to cease her practices, or face the consequences.

—Consequences? said Maggie, and I could almost hear the flapping of her lashes as she coquetted and tipped her head. —Consequences?

—We’re not above hanging her, he said.

T
he next day, the
Polyanthos,
the
Herald,
and the
Police Gazette
sold papers off the account of the so-called riot, not bothering to mention they started it themselves as fodder for their pages. The
Herald
reported in smug tones that I cowered inside my LAIR trembling lest the mob haul me out of my CHARNEL HOUSE and rip me limb from limb. The
Gazette
said, the SHE-DEVIL was not at home, but off selling a baby into white SLAVERY. The
Polyanthos
wrote how the mob had a noose made, ready to swing me from a lamppost.

That riot sold papers like hot corn on the corner. They wrote their lies and I read them at the breakfast table of the Astor House Hotel where Charlie had insisted, after hearing the events of the day, that we remove ourselves for safety. There we were joined by our friends the Owens, and the lawyer Morrill. Ida Owens patted my hand while the men harrumphed and bristled their whiskers with righteousness at the trumped up poppycock of fabrication printed about me. The cream curdled in my coffee as I read the
Gazette
’s account.

Great excitement existed yesterday on Liberty Street in the vicinity of the house occupied by a certain Madame X, and was ominous of a deep feeling of abhorrence among the better classes, for the practices of this miserable female wretch, who hid trembling behind the shutters while a crowd called for her
removal. We trust from the expression of yesterday, Madame is now convinced of the necessity of closing her business; otherwise there seems to be a most fearful certainty that the end of outrage toward her is not yet.

—“Madame is convinced,” Charlie read. —Is that so?

—ARE you convinced of the necessity of closing your doors? Ida Owens asked. —Pray not.

—Don’t tell me you’re done with it, said her husband.

—I’m done with it, I said.

—We’re not going to let a bunch of costermongers rattling pots send you packing, said Charlie.

—We? You wasn’t there, I said.

I known my husband was mortally sorry he was not at home during the Disturbance. He had only arrived well after dinner from his errand uptown and was so shocked at the news, so tender of me. —Poor Annie, never again, never again, he whispered, and wrapped me in cloaks and handed me up to the seat of our carriage, whisking me off to the Astor House Hotel. But now this morning while Annabelle rested oblivious at Greta’s, Charlie was all brave talk again in front of his idols, the Owens. —It was only Dixon up to his tricks, he said. —It was only a staged spectacle for the press.

—Only!? You didn’t see the blood in their eye, I said.

—I’ve seen blood, Charlie says. —I know what it looks like.

—It was MINE they were after, not yours. They have a likeness of me in the paper.

—Not even close, he says, all flattery. —You are a beauty yet they drew a hag.

—Are you giving up on them, then, Mrs. Jones? Owens asked. —Your ladies?

—Would you abandon us, your sisters, to ignorance? cried his wife. —Would you consign us to our fate at the hands of men?

—Mrs. Jones, so many depend on you, Owens said. —You know you have our profound respect and admiration for your bravery.

Owens, that wily cove, had found my weak spot. I was a sucker for praise. They was all goading me, the crew of them. And now Morrill joined in, bragging, —Madame, they have no evidence against you, but
even if there WERE charges, I could beat them with one hand behind my back.

I played with a spoon, seesawed it on the white starched linen. Little oblongs of light reflected off the glass and the silver of the swank dining room. The clink of cutlery and the laughter of other people talking was a tinkle of piano music in the air. These other diners spoke of their ordinary days, their shopping expeditions, politics, opinions, pets and children. They were not talking about blood. Not about sad shamed women facing life and death. Not mobs. Not jail or hanging nooses. They ate their fruit compote off their spoons. They wiped their lips with their napkins. Ha ha ha they laughed.

—Eat something, my darling, said Charlie softly, touching my hand over the sugar bowl. —The papers would not like it if you starved, for what would they talk about? You’d no longer be in the headlines if you give it up. No knocking would wake you in the middle of the night. You’d have peace and quiet.

He waited while I thought about it and he was a clever b*****d for he knew I was not one for peace and quiet.

—These are the monkish days of mental darkness, Owens muttered, into his cup. —Imagine what they’ll write when you retire and close your doors!

—Won’t they preen and boast? said his wife, clucking. —Gloating and claiming they have shut you down.

I considered it, Dixon crowing. Matsell wheezing so SMUG. I didn’t wish to give them one smidge of satisfaction. —F. them, I said at last, reckless. —The b*****ds can’t drive me out.

*  *  *

Back home, sitting by the fire with Anna-bee on his lap, Charlie’s idea was that we Joneses would show them one better. —All the really fine families are moving along Fifth Avenue, says he. —So we’ll move right next door to the fancy folk to spit in their eye. They got empty lots uptown for sale, the size of a city block. We’ll buy one. We’ll buy four or five. We’ll build a castle.

—A castle? cried our Annabelle. —Will we live in a castle?

—Yes, wee princess, said her indulgent father. —Château Jones. A castle with turrets, and a pony with silver bells, and a garden with fountains of chocolate.

—And a soda fountain! his daughter demanded, stamping her slippered foot.

—Shut your gob now, says I in the voice of my own Mam, who never did tolerate a whinging child. Charlie was ever after spoiling her and giving her sweets.

—Never mind pet, he said, —I’ll call on a land-agent in the morning and arrange it. We’ll have a deed in minutes.

—A deed, a deed, a deed, sang Annabelle, to the tune of Farmer in the Dell. She was learning to play the piano and kept up humming that tune till it grated the nerves. A castle in the dell, it soon became.

I on the other hand had no time to sing, nor dream of castles, for Liberty Street was busier than ever, thanks to all the free advertising we got from the riot and the press afterwards. The cries of the mob still rang in my ears, and we went about our business full of foreboding.

*  *  *

Still, when the bell rang at the office later in March of that year of 1876, I was expecting a lady in labor as usual, not a pickle-nose policeman in a uniform.

—Madame DeBeausacq? he says. —Madame Jacqueline Ann DeBeausacq?

—You have the wrong address. There’s no Madame anyone here. I’m Mrs. Jones.

—Wo ho ho, he blustered, —that’s not the story I heard. It’s common knowledge you are one and the same.

To my alarm I saw he had a friend with him, another trap standing at the foot of the front steps.

—It’s not a story, it’s the facts, I says. —I am Mrs. Jones, and here is Mr. Jones, my husband, to prove it.

—What’s all this? Charlie had come out of the dispensary at the sound of men’s voices. Now he took my elbow and put himself between me and the police.

—I am Officer Hays, said the trap, —I have a warrant for the arrest of your wife.

—On what grounds? Charlie said.

—For providing a*******.

Charlie demanded to see the paper. —I’m terribly sorry, he said, reading it. —It says right here this is for a Madame DeBeausacq.

—Madame DeBeausacq is an elderly woman, I told the policemen. —Very rarely here, and currently in Paris. We don’t know when she is next expected.

—Mrs. Jones is only an alias, said the trap. —And the papers have a likeness of Madame who is the very image of yourself.

So much for that defense, it was a wash, but Charlie stuck with it.

—Mrs. Jones is my wife, and this is a ridiculous charge.

—She’ll come with me to Centre Street, said Officer Hays.

—The Tombs? I cried.

—I won’t allow it, Charlie said.

—Come along, said the law, and we saw it was useless to argue.

—I’ll fetch Morrill, said Charlie.

—Pray give me a moment, I said, in a panic, —so that I may change my dress.

*  *  *

The papers later noted the velvet and fringe of the Scotch catlin silk I selected, and the quality of my outer garments. “Elegantly attired,” said the
Herald
. “Finely-dressed in cashmere and fur,” said the
Polyanthos
.

At Centre Street after several hours, Charlie arrived without Morrill who was delayed in the grand jury. Without a lawyer I was brought up before Police Magistrate Henry Merritt, though what he merited besides a thumb off the nose I did not see, as he was just a mug in black robes. But when he spoke the name of my accuser, the blister of fear in my chest ruptured.

It was Cordelia. My little Cordelia.

—We have a sworn affidavit from one Cordelia Shackford Purdy, said Merritt. —She has sworn that you did procure an a******* upon her.

That cat had gone and reported me, after I saved her life, and how had that happened? They must have forced her. I was sure of it.

—It’s a lie, I said, very fierce.

—Miss Shackford—Mrs. Purdy—has testified in a separate suit against Mr. George Purdy for desertion, that he did force her to undergo a******* at your hands, of a quick child.

—Not true! I cried.

—You are charged with Manslaughter in the Second Degree under the New York State Statute of 1846. The crime shall be punished by imprisonment no less than four years and not more than seven.

FOUR to SEVEN YEARS. Manslaughter
. Why? If they arrested me for anything it would be a misdemeanor operation which carried a one year sentence, not FOUR to SEVEN. Manslaughter? Never. It was known I’d not go near a quick child except to deliver it. The blood drained from my face. I seen how now I was set up.

Charlie steadied me with a sweaty hand. —It’s your word against hers. They can prove nothing.

—First of all, I told the judge, —this Cordelia Purdy, whoever she might be, has lied to you. I never set eyes on her in my life.

—The court will now set bail.

—I am the mother of a young daughter, Your Honor, I said, the terror in me rupturing like bullets in a fire. —Please release me. I have done nothing against ANY law let alone done manslaughter.

The judge rapped his gavel and set bail in the amount of ten thousand dollars.

—Ten thousand!? cried Charlie. —But it’s a lie!

—Manslaughter, said the judge. —Ten thousand. With two sureties.

He rapped again and said I would be kept at the Tombs.

—My wife Mrs. Jones is wrongfully charged, Charlie said. —Bail in that amount is a mockery of justice is what it is. But I’ll pay it now Your Honor.

—Two sureties, said the judge, and rapped once more.

Immediately, several matrons came at me like a swoop of bats.

—Axie, said Charlie, stricken, and watched as they clamped shackles around me, hurting the skin of my wrists.

—Get Morrill you b*****d, I said, as they pulled me away in a panic.

*  *  *

“Madame DeBeausacq did not flinch as she was taken away to the Tombs,” wrote the
Herald
the next day. But I was all flinch, hard-pressed even to stand upright, as my limbs was boneless, filled with aspic. They took me to a paddy wagon so named for all the unlucky Irish before me, the fathers
and the brothers named Paddy and their mothers, and even the children carted off to rot and suffer the outrages of apple pie American justice in the Tombs. That name was a grave for a reason. The matron, Mrs. Maltby, dragged me up to the second tier and unlocked a black iron door like the grate to a furnace and pushed me into a cubicle without light. I sat on the bed and leaned against the hard wall, so damp with the tears of all the many ladies who had languished here in indignity and squalor. And when the door was slammed and locked behind me, even then I did not cry, only cursed the names of my enemies, Matsell and Dixon, Applegate and Gunning, Hays and Merritt, each one a different uniform of the medical and legal and printing establishments arrayed against me. They was a pack of Aces against just a two of clubs. I prayed to Charlie to have me out of that place by morning.

*  *  *

At daylight, with a rattle of keys a jailer brought me a tray. The tea was dishwater and the taste of the biscuit was of weevil. I wouldn’t eat it. I pressed my face to the orifice in the door and looked across an open gallery where meager light came down through a glass roof grimed with pigeon dung. The smell was close and savage. A terrible din echoed up through the center of the place, of women calling and weeping in their cages. Opposite was another row of cells where a guard walked. He had a pistol on his hip. I watched him strut and stroll.