City of Light (52 page)

The reception at Rumsey Park spilled out across the manicured lawns, all of us floating in the afternoon radiance. Liveried footmen served champagne in fluted glasses; white roses were thick upon the trellises. The house was a Beaux-Arts palace, the long French windows reflecting the city around it. My board of trustees was present, of course, along with Miss Love and what seemed like the entire memberships of the Twentieth Century Club and the Buffalo Club (most of them married to one another). But this reception was unusual because there was also a cross section of the city in attendance: the operatives of the major political parties and ethnic groups, including the Irish, Italian, and Polish; our figurehead mayor, Conrad Diehl, scion of the German community, and his cronies; churchmen of virtually every faith in full regalia, including even the rabbi of Temple Beth Zion.

Although Tom himself had sent regrets to the Rumseys, the air was filled with talk of the miracle he was performing at Niagara. Word was out that on Friday the president would be able to put Powerhouse 3 on-line as originally planned, despite the bombing. Tom was hailed as a hero. Almost as if he were one of them, my board members were forced to acknowledge this admiration from the widely drawn crowd (not to acknowledge it would have been blatantly rude), and then they deflected it. According to them we were all heroes. Nothing could stop us. We were triumphant. As a city, as a nation.

One group notably lacking official representation at this reception was the Negro community. I had hoped that here, at least, they would have been included. Mary Talbert stood out, the only member of her race in attendance. Nonetheless we took our place on the receiving line, and for a few moments I was able to put aside my anxieties about Grace and appreciate the scene. From a thronelike velvet chair beside her husband, who stood, Mrs. McKinley greeted her visitors. Her face was tightly wrinkled and immobile. Most likely she was in her fifties (her husband was fifty-eight), but she could easily have been mistaken for eighty. Independently wealthy, she was stiffly shrouded in jewels like the Empress Theodora in a Byzantine mosaic. After the deaths of her two daughters from childhood illnesses, Mrs. McKinley had become an epileptic (or so it was said); she was subject to seizures and debilitating headaches. Nevertheless the president adored her and solicitously devoted himself to her comfort and happiness. He would place a handkerchief over her face if she suffered a seizure at a public event. She spent her time crocheting bedroom slippers by the thousands, distributing them to family and friends. Some friends boasted over a dozen pairs.

Mrs. McKinley could not bear to shake hands at receptions, so she held a bouquet of pansies on her lap to remind everyone not to reach for her hand. When I was introduced, she nodded without seeming to see me—or anyone, not even the exquisitely dressed but inescapably dark-skinned Mary Talbert who was next in line.

The president was his wife’s opposite. Jovial, expansive, gracious, tolerant. A Civil War hero, at ease with himself and others, he caught every name, questioned every visitor, relished every tiny coincidence. How lovable he was, his large midsection girdled by a vest, his suit jacket carefully buttoned, his expression unfailingly kind and welcoming. He was everyone’s favorite uncle. He swelled with the joy of shaking hands, but his handshake was sweaty. I wiped his sweat onto my skirt when he was safely occupied in a brief but pointed discussion with Mrs. Talbert on the merits of Booker T. Washington’s Tuskegee Institute.

“Needless to say,” Mrs. Talbert confided after we escaped to the terrace, “I pretended to full approval of Tuskegee.” We strolled down the terrace steps. “That’s all these white men want to hear: Tuskegee, Tuskegee, training excellent cooks and shoemakers by the hundred.” We crossed the lawn and made our way to the formal garden. “Well, the day will come when more is required from these white men than the vocational training at Tuskegee.”

“I trust when that time comes, you’ll make yourself available to explain exactly what is required?” I teased.

Her smile was slow but generous when it came. She took my arm. “I hope so.”

Huge stone pots overflowed with flowers—red, blue, purple, bold and full-blooming. The laburnum walk turned luminous in the mist of afternoon. Sculptured nudes gleamed on their pedestals. Suddenly I spotted Frederick Krakauer beside a statue of Diana the Huntress. He was exchanging what appeared to be pleasantries with John Milburn. What sort of pleasantries would those two have to share? Undoubtedly something to do with the persistent rumors that McKinley would soon nominate Milburn to be Attorney General. At least then he’d be far away from us. The McKinleys were staying with the Milburns during their visit, and Milburn appeared more smug than ever. I was relieved to see Krakauer, however: If he was here, he wasn’t attempting to reach Grace—although of course he could easily hire someone to do such work, as Milburn himself had once done. I resolved to keep Krakauer in my sight line as Mrs. Talbert and I wandered through the crowd.

I saw Franklin Fiske on the far side of the lawn, exchanging jokes with a group that included the mayor. Seeing him, knowing his regard for me, made me wish I could confide my fears about Grace to him. But I felt helpless. He was not disinterested enough to respond objectively. The only one who might be was the woman at my side. I studied her honey-toned face. Her expression was complacent; she’d noticed nothing amiss in my mood. Yet even now something held me back from unbridled confidences.

Around us the fountains flashed, throwing water into the air to sparkle like fireworks. Franklin had once described Rumsey Park as a Versailles, and he was right, although it was an incongruous Versailles—for when I turned to look behind me, skyscrapers loomed above the trees. They were only a few blocks away and creeping closer. This estate was one of the last enclaves of the old city. The business district was fast expanding, and I expected the Rumseys, ever practical, would soon subdivide this land to immense profit.

In the center of the formal garden was a wide, round fountain that had in fact come from a French château. Its tiers gleamed, its waters fell in transparent sheets. Mary Talbert and I paused to admire it.

“I wouldn’t object to a fountain like this in my garden,” Mrs. Talbert observed.

“It would certainly cool the surrounding area when the wind blew across it,” I said.

“Indeed. From that point of view, a fountain like this can be considered a practical necessity.”

“Yes, you’re right,” I agreed.

We watched two blue jays frolicking in the upper tier, flicking droplets from their wings. I always felt surprised when I saw blue jays, never quite believing how truly blue they really were.

And then, through the sheets of falling water, Mrs. Talbert and I saw that a conference was taking place in the distance among three men and a woman. The leaders of the exposition and of the city. John Scatcherd, John Milburn, Miss Maria Love, Ansley Wilcox. Where was Krakauer? I glanced around and found him beside Mayor Diehl. More confident knowing where he was, I looked again at the impromptu conference. There were disapproving glances in our direction, nods of acquiescence, a plan being laid out and approved. Milburn appeared flushed with upset.

“Do you think they find my presence disturbing?” Mrs. Talbert asked matter-of-factly.

“I hope not,” I said. “I would be appalled if—” But even as I spoke, Miss Love turned from the group and began to walk purposefully in our direction.

“I believe I’d best be going,” Mrs. Talbert said lightly.

Suddenly I felt both offended and frightened. What had they planned, what was Miss Love going to do or threaten? “You mustn’t go!” I said angrily—my anger directed at the group in the distance. “We can face down Miss Love. I won’t allow them to force you to leave. We’ll fight them together.”

“Not today.”

“You’ve always gloried in a fight.”

“But my dear Miss Barrett, there won’t be a fight. What will happen is that Miss Love will ask to walk with us, and we will not be able to refuse her. She will guide us—because we are too polite to resist, and because she cannot walk in the sun, or so she will claim—she will guide us to the shelter of some concealed bower where she will stay with us, because we are too polite to resist, until the party is over. Exactly as she would stay with a drunken relative who must be kept firmly out of the way. No thank you. I’d much rather leave at a moment of my own choosing. Which is now.”

“You are my guest. If you are leaving, then I will leave with you,” I declared resolutely.

“I disagree. My departure is wisdom but yours would be melodrama.”

I realized how foolish I’d been to invite her. “I’m so sorry to have put you in this position. I never properly considered the … ramifications of—”

“Don’t be sorry. I enjoyed every minute. Literally. I especially enjoyed the invitation. And now I can say I’ve discussed political issues with the president, which makes me more credible in the arena of national debate. Good day to you, Miss Barrett,” she said abruptly, and with that, she strode around the fountain and toward the house, nodding her head in pleasant greeting to the startled Miss Love. Rather than wait for my own fast-approaching Lovian encounter, I turned and walked across the lawns in the general direction of the Rumsey woods, which were the equivalent of a full city block away. Guests clustered all around, and soon I considered myself safely lost in the crowd. I was pondering my next move when I heard a woman call, “Miss Barrett! Oh, Miss Barrett!”

Having no choice, I turned to see Mrs. Rushman disengaging herself from the Freddy Coatsworths and approaching me with suspicious eagerness.

“Miss Barrett!” she repeated. “Have you heard?” She spoke loudly, for the benefit of those near us. “Abigail has been asked to stay on at the Roycrofters after the end of her fellowship. She certainly will become an artist now, in the great tradition of Mrs. Cary and Mrs. Glenny.” She glanced around to see if those esteemed women were anywhere nearby but mercifully they were not. “She says she’ll never marry, but we shall see, we shall see!” Mrs. Rushman leaned close to me. A bit of canapé had fallen on the bosom of her dress. “Every door will open to her now,” she whispered. “She’ll be able to marry anyone now. Oh, look who’s there! I must tell him the news.” Flashing her feather boa around her neck, she hurried off to greet Mr. Albright, who perambulated through the crowd with his long-limbed, sloe-eyed wife Susan on his arm. He appeared absolutely placid as he faced her.

I thought about what Mrs. Rushman had told me. So I had indeed bestowed upon Abigail my own life, except without a real child to watch over. Now she would resist marriage and spend her days searching for the boy she believed to be hers. However, if she also became a professional artist, well, at least I would feel a touch of redemption for the decisions I had made on her behalf.

My encounter with Mrs. Rushman had made the party feel oppressive. With the conviction that Krakauer would remain here until the end (there were too many important people in attendance for him to depart early), I decided to seek refuge for a while in the quiet of the woods.

In their own way, the woods of Rumsey Park were as manicured as the lawns and gardens—every woodland tree planted, every bubbling cascade shaped with the overall effect in mind. I had walked here many times over the years, and I welcomed every opportunity. From the moment I followed the path into the woods, trees sheltered me and silence enveloped me. These woods were famous in the city and laden with romantic mystery. In their midst was a serpentine lake where generations of children had learned to ice-skate and row boats. A spired, Gothic gazebo graced the lakeshore. Near the center of the lake was a small island with a Grecian peristyle just large enough to shelter a boating party from the rain. Today, because of a passing noontime shower, the woods were moist and shimmery, fragrant with the scents of late summer. Simply breathing those scents gradually eased my mind and restored the focus I needed to deal with the difficulties that besieged me.

After the path curved around a stand of birch trees, unexpectedly I came upon Dexter Rumsey relaxing on a bench in a clearing. His eyes were closed and he basked in the sun. This was like him, to wander off from big groups; to leave public panoply to his elder brother, Bronson. Hearing my step, he sat up and opened his eyes, then greeted me with a guilty grin.

“Miss Barrett!” he said with mock surprise. “Haven’t you met the president? Haven’t you attempted to overhear each and every word the president is saying to each and every person who comes to shake his hand?”

“Oh, yes, indeed I have. And a delightful experience it was,” I replied, my voice sounding less jaunty than I would have wished.

Nonetheless he laughed appreciatively as he rose from the bench. “Walk with me, will you?” he asked, taking my arm. “My brother is much more suited to these events than I am. I think he actually enjoys them! But what’s an older brother for, if not to give me the chance to roam the woods? I need a calming interlude after the excitement of the past few days. I haven’t been able to take my yacht out all week. There’s a kind of fever at work in the city, have you noticed? Did you hear that some silly boys from the Nichols School risked their lives to hang a banner welcoming the president around the third floor of their school building? When they found out that McKinley’s travel route would take him down a different block, they lobbied Milburn to change the route so McKinley would see the banner! What foolishness. Macaulay girls would never do something like that, I’m sure. Well, I’m grateful presidents don’t condescend to bless us with their presence very often.”