The Time Heiress (15 page)

Mr. Evans smiled. “They’re wondering who you are and why they have never seen you before.”

“Really?”

“Do you not have high society in Boston? You ought to be familiar with this scene!”

“Oh, yes,” she replied. “But I do not participate in it much. It is not to my taste.”

“I am glad to hear that.”

They ascended to their seats in a private box on the second tier of the theater, closely overlooking the stage. She looked around at the space. It was huge, but not exactly what she expected. She was used to the splendid, ornate opera houses built later on. This place seemed to be designed more for function than for beauty, to accommodate crowds, rather than to impress, but then she had to remind herself that it was once a fort. As she looked about, she realized that not all of the patrons were of the upper social strata. The classes were arranged into sections, the higher up the seats, the lower class the people seemed to be. She noticed that in the seats farthest from the stage, in the uppermost regions of the theater, sat the black audience members.

She looked at Mr. Evans. “If Miss Ketchum had come, she could not have sat in this box with you, am I right?”

“Mrs. Reilly, why does that surprise you? I have been to Boston recently; they are not so much more progressive than New York. Negro people and white people do not have any more an equal footing in society there than they have here. Were you expecting something different?”

Cassandra looked down, ashamed of her lapse. She needed to remember that she had wandered into an anomaly in the Johnston household.

The footlights were lit, the gas lamps in the house were lowered, and the curtains opened. The orchestra launched into the opening bars of the famous opera. Cassandra thrilled to think that, to the people sitting there in the theater, it was all new. She knew the music so well she could have hummed along to it. The thought that rest of the audience was hearing it for the very first time gave her a new appreciation of its beauty.

She was surprised when Marietta Alboni made her entrance to sing the opening bars of Violetta’s role. She was not beautiful, as Cassandra had expected her to be. She was middle-aged, short, and rather plump. Cassandra had always seen the role played by a lithe ingénue—if not very young, then at least looking that way from the stage. However, Miss Alboni’s voice was flawless and powerful. She was normally a contralto, Cassandra knew, but handled the soprano range effortlessly. The other singers were equally good, and Cassandra was soon lost in the story.

Eventually she became aware that the other audience members were not watching with rapt attention. The less-than-dim light in the theater made it possible to observe the various dramas off-stage. She noticed a young man in a box across the way whispering to a young woman. The woman raised her hand fan in front of her face and turned to the man. They kissed behind the fan. In the box just above them sat a man with gray hair next to a woman who looked decades younger, with dark brown curls and creamy white skin. Next to her was an older woman dressed all in black. The young woman threw the man an occasional glance, and the man smiled and nodded his head whenever he caught her eye. The old woman watched them both like a hawk. Cassandra turned to Mr. Evans to see if he noticed, but he was intently watching the action on stage.

As the opera drew to its tragic conclusion, she sensed that Mr. Evans was growing restless, almost agitated. She glanced at him, and then followed his gaze into the upper regions of the theater where she could make out the forms of four, large, rough-looking men. They looked like the same men who were at Mr. Evans’ lecture a week before. He saw that she had noticed them, then drew her attention back to himself with a half-hearted smile. He looked again at the stage, and she could see that he was trying to stay focused on it. Once the music came crashing to a finale, he stood. She thought he was moved to a standing ovation, but he pulled her up quickly and whispered to her.

“We must go. Come, hurry.”

They rushed out of the box among applause for an encore. They managed to get out of the theater and across the bridge without delay, and as they hurried across the park, they spied the Johnston’s carriage waiting in a long line of others on State Street.

“Carter!” cried Mr. Evans before whistling loudly.

He took Cassandra by the arm, and they ran to the carriage. He helped her up, ordering the driver to go at once. Cassandra gathered up her unwieldy skirts and stuffed herself in as quickly as possible, Mr. Evans practically falling on top of her as he slammed the carriage door. From the window, they saw the four men making their way out the entrance of the theater, pushing aside anyone in their path and running across the bridge. Mr. Evans stuck his head out.

“Hurry Carter!” he cried. “One-hundred-and-four East Twenty-sixth Street! And take Broadway!”

Carter turned the carriage around and headed toward where State Street became Broadway, just a few hundred feet away. Cassandra watched through the back window as the men clambered into a heavy, black carriage.

“Where are we going?” asked Cassandra.  

“Melville’s house—well, actually, his brother’s—but I know he is there.”

“Herman Melville? Why?”

“Because it is safe. I cannot explain everything right now.”

“Who are those men? I saw them at All Angels.”

“Slave catchers.”

“Slave catchers?” Her heart pounded and her stomach churned as the carriage bounced along Broadway, veering through the traffic, trying to avoid pedestrians. “What do they want with you?”

“They do not like me.”

Mr. Evans craned his head around, trying to see how closely the other coach was following. It was swallowed up by the mire on the busy avenue. They had lost them.

“Because you are an abolitionist? Because of your speeches?”

“It is a little more complicated than that.” He took her hand. “We are going to Allan Melville’s because I cannot let them know where you or I live.”

Adrenaline pounded through her veins. “But will the Melville family not be in danger?”

“Not if we get there and get inside before they see us. Carter is experienced at this. He has already lost them.”

Mr. Evans continued to check behind, as Carter sped them up the avenue.

“Damn!” Evans cried.

“Do you see them?”

“Yes, but they are quite a ways back, just passing Canal.”

The ride seemed interminable, and Cassandra thought she would be sick more than once. She saw Waverly Place fly past; then in another several minutes they were at Union Place, where the street jogged to the left around the park. 

“They are almost on us!” said Mr. Evans, “but I think they are going the other way!”

Cassandra could see from her window that they’d gone right at the park. “What are they doing?”

“Probably trying to cut us off on the other side of the square.”

“Do they have guns?” she cried. “Will they shoot us?”

“Not in broad daylight. They are probably just trying to scare us. They want to intimidate me. They want me to back down.”

“My God!” Cassandra uttered.

As they cleared the park, the other carriage was bearing down from the right, almost close enough to be sideswiped. Cassandra wanted to scream but nothing would come out. Carter urged the horses and they leapt forward, out of the way of the oncoming coach and four, and on up the road. The other vehicle would have to turn right to follow them, and at the speed they were traveling, could not make the turn.

As Carter sped up Broadway, they could see the slave catchers’ carriage pulling to a stop and trying to turn around to follow, but the heavy traffic got in the way, and they were delayed long enough to give Carter’s coach an advantage. In a few more blocks, another slight jog took them around Madison Square where Broadway merged with Fifth Avenue, then broke off again and became Bloomingdale Road.

Carter took the Fifth Avenue fork, and shortly thereafter, they saw the other coach speed by onto Bloomingdale. Cassandra thought that the driver must have spotted the Johnston carriage however, because she saw the vehicle slow, but it was too late—they would have to turn around. In just moments, Carter veered onto Twenty-sixth Street, and pulled up in front of the Melville home. Its passengers jumped out of the coach and ran up the steps as Carter drove away.

Mr. Evans pounded on the door of the house, and a youngish looking man with wavy brown hair and a beard opened it.

“Thaddeus!” he exclaimed.

“Let us in, Herman,” cried Mr. Evans.

“Please, come.” He stood aside as they rushed in, and beheld a similar-looking man, clean shaven and slightly older, staring at them with great astonishment.

Herman bolted the door behind them and Mr. Evans led Cassandra to a sofa where she nearly collapsed.

“Please,” the writer said to his brother, who was still standing there with his mouth open. “Would you get our guests some water?”

Allan Melville hurried off, and Mr. Evans tore off his jacket and sat down next to Cassandra, panting.

 “My friend, what has happened?” Herman asked.

“We were being followed,” Mr. Evan replied breathlessly, “by a gang of slave catchers. Please, do not ask me to explain. I came here because no one would think to look for me here. We just need to rest a little while; then we will leave you in peace.”

“You may stay as long as you wish.” He looked at Cassandra expectantly.

“This is my friend, Mrs. Cassandra Reilly,” Mr. Evans said. “She is from Boston. I am afraid I have given her quite a horrid scare.”

“I am fine,” Cassandra said, patting her forehead with her handkerchief.

Allan came back into the room with two crystal glasses of water and his guests gratefully drank.

“Thank you so much,” Cassandra said. She then shook hands with the brothers, too rattled to be able to fully take in who she was actually meeting. She wasn’t sure how to ask the question of using the water closet, but Allan anticipated it and called for the maid.

“Would you please take Mrs. Reilly to freshen up?” he said to her.

The woman led Cassandra up a flight of stairs and to a dainty bedroom, pointing out the water closet across the hall. Cassandra rushed into it and relieved herself. She then went into the bedroom, poured some water into a basin, washed her hands, and splashed water onto her face. She dried herself off with a nearby hand towel and checked the mirror. She smoothed her hair and straightened her clothes, then returned with a greater sense of dignity to the parlor. She noticed the polished wood floors below her feet, the crystal chandeliers above her head, and the elegant new furniture everywhere. The family obviously had money.

When she re-entered the room, the three men leapt to their feet. A tray of sherry had been brought and some small sandwiches. She returned to her seat by the sofa, and the gentlemen sat.

Cassandra picked up a sandwich and examined it. It seemed to be made of some kind of smoked fish and cucumbers. She took a small bite, found it palatable, and finished it quickly.

“What are you currently working on, Herman?” Mr. Evans asked with an attitude like nothing out of the ordinary had just occurred.

“A novella. It is called
The Encantadas
or
Enchanted Isles
, based on my travels there.”

“Fascinating! I wish I had had the experiences you have, my friend. And sales of
Moby Dick
are still moving well?”

“Oh, capitally.”

“Herman will soon be a rich man,” his brother commented.

Herman laughed. “When that day occurs, I will move back down here to New York. I tire of Massachusetts. Yet, when I am here promoting my book, I miss Elizabeth and our little ones.”

“And what do you hear from Nathaniel?”

“Excuse me,” Cassandra interjected. “Do you mean Hawthorne?”

“Yes, he is my fond compatriot!” said Herman. “He is doing very well,” he said to Evans. “The day my books sell as well as his
Scarlet Letter,
I will truly be a rich man.”

The men spoke on about their friend and his success, but Mr. Evans didn’t again mention the slave catchers, and the Melville brothers didn’t press him. There seemed to be an understanding that it was a secret business.

An hour passed and, as fascinated as she was to be in the presence of such a literary legend, Cassandra could not suppress a yawn.

The Melvilles offered to walk Cassandra and Evans home, saying they thought it was safe now to do so. The sun had set, and the night was cool. Cassandra began to shiver. She realized she had left her shawl somewhere, probably in the theater, so Mr. Evans took off his coat and placed it around her shoulders as they walked. The gentlemen continued to engage in conversation about literature and politics and soon were in front of the Johnston home. Mr. Evans walked her to the door and said goodnight as Allan and Herman waited by the gate.

“I am so sorry, Mrs. Reilly—” he began.

“Please, Mr. Evans, we shall speak of it later.” She removed his coat from her shoulders and held it out to him. “And I will want a more detailed explanation than you have given me.”

“Certainly,” he said, retrieving the coat and bowing to her.