Chapter 9 Abby

9

ABBY

Thank goodness, Abby thought on Saturday morning, for Archibald Yost and his tuba.

He’d grown into a fine young man since his time at the Bethany Home, sturdy as an oak, a living reminder of how many children and mothers the home had served. Archie, they’d called him in his youth, when he had cornsilk-fine curls. Now he stood with his small brass band at the top corner of the front lawn, their varied horns tooting out a Sousa march. Watching them from across the sunlight-streaked yard calmed Abby’s nerves. When Dolly waddled over, asking fretfully where to put the tray of pumpkin pies now that the refreshment table was full, Abby managed to respond with measured patience.

“You can squeeze them in beside the pitchers of cider, dear,” she said. “The more plentiful the table appears, the better.”

This party, a harvest picnic to celebrate Mayor-Elect Pratt, had been pulled together in under forty-eight hours, and, fortunately, the weather had cooperated. A wan sun shone through thin clouds. November 10 was a bit late in the season, but Abby had still been able to produce a few more sunset roses from her greenhouse, which she had tucked into pitchers with sprigs of dried peony leaves, for luck. The baby nurses had brought all the charming infants from the nursery, and now lined up prams and white blankets on the lawn. One of the nurses, dimpled and young, lifted a plump little cherub high in the air, cooing at him, before laying him gently on a blanket to bat at wisps of cloud overhead. The older children had come with their matron from the cottage, and they danced happily and longingly in front of the desserts, dragging hand kites in their mittened fingers, the ribbons caressing their faces.

A hand landed on Abby’s shoulder. “What a fine event you’ve planned.”

Abby turned to face her friend. Euphemia Overlock had a wide brow, dark deep-set eyes, and gray hair that turned abruptly to black in a tight little bun. Just the sight of her face quieted the butterflies dancing in Abby’s stomach.

Yost’s band switched to another march as Abby embraced Euphemia. “I can’t tell you how happy I am to see you. I trust you had a refreshing time in New Orleans?”

“We did, although the journey home was a trial. You know I’m a snug fit for a Pullman berth, and we were stuck for hours outside Memphis.” Euphemia stifled a yawn, pressing two fingers of her kid glove to her lips. “Now, tell me. Why have you staged this last-minute party? I hear you invited not only our next mayor, but also a reporter from the Tribune. ”

Abby took a deep breath and filled Euphemia in on Tuva Larsen’s interview in the Examiner, the hubbub surrounding Faith, and Swede Kate’s report on the missing madam and murdered girl, as they watched two sewing apprentices hang a row of bunting. The purpose of the event, Abby explained, was twofold: to generate a positive news story to counteract Tuva’s, and to sit down with Robert Pratt to figure out if he’d be a friend to the Sisterhood after he took office.

“I’m sure we have nothing to worry about there,” Euphemia replied sunnily. “By all accounts, he’s a good man.”

Abby only nodded. She worried he might be too good, but she kept this to herself. When Pearl and Leigh came down the steps with a bucket of floating apples, Abby pointed out Leigh’s unfortunate haircut. “There, you see? She claims Faith Johnson made her do it.”

“Preposterous.” Euphemia flipped open the fan she always kept hanging from a silk rope at her waist and fluttered it rapidly, her habit when bothered. “It’s folly to believe someone could mesmerize you into picking up the scissors.”

“Folly or not, it’s what the whole household believes.” Abby gazed at the home, its wrought-iron porch, central squared turret, and impressive addition. It looked proud and righteous, not at all the site of such chaos. “They won’t go within ten feet of her.”

“Speaking of those I’d rather give a wide berth, have you met this missing madam, Priscilla Black?” When Abby shook her head, Euphemia tutted, “Dreadful woman. I went to bail her out once, and she just about spat at me in return. I wouldn’t be surprised if she has her share of enemies.”

“Perhaps her disappearance and the sporting girl’s murder are unrelated.” Abby caught herself hoping this was true. Otherwise, it meant a more sinister agent of evil was afoot.

Euphemia shut her fan. “I’ll see what I can find out about Mesmerism. Horace may have a book on it. You know he likes to divert himself with supernatural twaddle.”

Abby smiled. “It is good to have you back.”

Carriages had begun to arrive, and people were taking their seats in a semicircle of wooden chairs they’d staged around a podium. Charlotte was to give a lecture, an occasion that sometimes cost four or five dollars a head and had now gathered a crowd of well-heeled guests, mostly women. Euphemia went to sit in the front, right beside the row of seats roped off for Mr. Pratt and his aides. The journalist from the Minneapolis Tribune, Herbert Block, was easy to pick out, having arrived on foot in a cheap, rumpled suit. His sketch artist was a pockmarked boy who looked no older than fifteen. They hovered near the buffet table, guiltily sneaking hand pies. As far as Abby was concerned, they could eat as much as they wanted. The Tribune, a Republican-leaning paper, tended to treat the Bethany Home fairly, unlike some of its competitors, who over the years had implied that the Sisterhood tended to overstep their bounds, or were nothing more than busybodies, rather than effectual agents of progressive change. Abby could mark the dips in donations they received after a story like that was allowed to run; it could take months to recover.

Here was Charlotte now, descending the steps of her buggy. Her round glasses gleamed white in the muted autumn sunlight, making her appear profoundly blind and helpless; within minutes, however, her voice would boom across this lawn, captivating everyone present and, Abby hoped, convincing the new mayor that the women who ran this home were the very bedrock of this city, deserving of whatever funding they’d already secured, and more.

A flash of movement to her left drew Abby’s eye. Cook had run up to the front door, panting, to accept a tray of candied apples from Faith.

The girl looked more relaxed than Abby had seen her before, a gentle smile lifting the corners of her mouth. She seemed oblivious to the steep wave of tension that her appearance caused to ripple through the yard. Movement slowed. Eyes went to her. A few of the society women who’d come to hear Charlotte craned their necks and began to whisper.

Faith offered Cook the gleaming caramel apples, decorated with sugared violets, with an air of pride. She must have prepared them herself. Abby watched, a sick feeling in her stomach. Friend or not, the reporter would be intrigued by the ghost girl, the alleged Mesmerist. What if his artist drew a sketch of her?

Beth Rhoades appeared beside Faith on the front steps and looped her arm through Faith’s. Abby hurried toward them, trying to avoid the divots of the lawn, the uneven ground. Fortunately, they were chatting, or at least Miss Rhoades was, and Abby made it to them before they’d had a chance to leave the porch.

“Good morning, my child,” she said. “Beautiful work on the violet apples.”

Faith’s pale cheeks flushed a lovely pink, and she bent her knees in a curtsy. Miss Rhoades was watching Abby with a strange look on her face.

“That’ll be all, Faith,” Abby said. “Run upstairs and rest. An occasion like this will only prove difficult for someone who cannot speak.”

Miss Rhoades’s mouth fell open. She turned to Faith as though she wanted to contradict Abby but felt she couldn’t break ranks. Archie’s band chose this moment to launch into a full rehearsal of “Stars and Stripes Forever,” cymbals crashing, and Faith’s eyelids fluttered in discomfort. She fumbled another quick curtsy in Abby’s direction, then in Miss Rhoades’s, then disappeared into the house, closing the door gently behind her.

“Mrs. Mendenhall,” Miss Rhoades began, “Faith has every right to enjoy this party.”

Abby interrupted her. “It’s for her own good, Beth.”

“I’ve a mute sister myself.” Miss Rhoades’s voice trembled, then grew louder and higher pitched. It seemed she might cry. “I know my sister wouldn’t want to be left alone.”

Abby took Miss Rhoades’s cold hand. She’d forgotten about the matron’s eldest sister, who still lived with their parents; she wondered, fleetingly, if this was why Miss Rhoades had never married and had been working since the age of twelve. Sometime she would have to sit with Miss Rhoades and ask. But now was not the time, not the time at all. The guest of honor had just arrived and taken his seat.

“The press will be looking for a witch among us—we have Tuva Larsen to thank for that. We cannot abide any more scandal. Now, please make sure there are plenty of clean napkins on the buffet table.”

As Abby left Miss Rhoades, she glanced toward the upstairs windows, then slipped into the last row as Charlotte began her lecture.

“Temperance,” Charlotte bellowed, before the crowd settled and quieted, the murmuring drawing to a whisper. On the lawn, the nurses shushed the babies and held the children back from the apples, the buffet table. The top of Charlotte’s head came just over the edge of the podium, her white hair curled in ringlets, rhinestones gleaming in her trademark velvet headband.

“When we speak of temperance in whiskey consumption, we understand our efforts must be two-sided. The publican displays temperance in how much he serves; the patron decides how much to partake, if at all. As long as the patron exists, so will the provider.”

Abby gripped the back of the empty seat in front of her. She could suppose where this was going, and a tirade against the men of the city wouldn’t be the best entrée into their relationship with soon-to-be Mayor Pratt.

“Why do we, then, approach the ‘necessary evil’ as if it were a one-sided problem? Placing responsibility squarely on young women without means, and ignoring the men—many of whom are in our own homes, our own churches, our own…”

The lawn chairs creaked as everyone shifted uncomfortably. A few of the women were nodding their heads. The men sat still and silent. Abby tried to bend her neck so that she could see Pratt’s face. He remained motionless in his seat, gazing at Charlotte, his expression unreadable.

The rest of the speech, thank goodness, avoided blaming men directly. Instead, Charlotte lauded the growth of the great twin cities, ended on the question of what the cities could be if vice were not allowed to flourish, and named Robert Pratt as the best candidate to lead them all into that future. Everyone, including Pratt himself, applauded with enthusiasm.

Herbert Block, the reporter, came to Abby after the speech had ended and everyone had made good work of the buffet. A crumb of piecrust clung to his mustache. “The feature should run on Monday,” he told Abby. “I’ll write a nice scene, with a few choice lines from Mrs. Van Cleve’s speech. My sketch boy got a good picture of the crowd.” He indicated the seated cluster of people, including Pratt.

“Thank you, Herbert,” said Abby, inching away from him. Best not to make it look as if she were orchestrating her own press.

Block whistled for the sketch boy, who sat on a hay bale near the children bobbing for apples. “Until next time, Mrs. Mendenhall,” said Block.

Abby didn’t hear him. She was looking over his head at a girl who’d stumbled up the path in disheveled evening clothes, her hair askew, the whites of her eyes bright red. Abby’s breath caught in her throat as she realized it was May Lombard. Block followed her gaze, and she heard him swear under his breath. The sketch artist, who’d joined them, began fishing in a pocket for his charcoal.

Abby reached for the artist’s wrist. “Friend, please. Respect this girl’s privacy.”

“Who is it?” Herbert had his pad out. Of course: he loved a scoop just as much as the rest of them did. “Is that the ghost girl they’re talking about?”

“There is no ghost girl.” Abby had been about to tell him May’s name was none of his business, but then an idea dawned on her. “This person is a stranger to me.” A lie. Lies could be necessary, couldn’t they, to protect the vulnerable?

Miss Rhoades had reached May and was holding her by the elbow, hurrying toward the house. “Please show our new arrival to a room, Beth,” Abby said, giving her a pointed look.

For the second time that morning, Miss Rhoades stared suspiciously at Abby, but she didn’t argue. She led May past the flower-strewn tables, through the kids with their pinwheels and kites, all of whom stopped, ribbons drooping, to watch May stumble by.

Abby glanced at the reporter and artist, both of whom had their eyes narrowed at her in skepticism. As they should have. The back of her collar stuck to her neck, drenched in sweat. What good did it do to live and dress simply if she didn’t speak the truth?

—

“Well, it was a very nice party.”

Robert Pratt sat in the parlor opposite Abby and Euphemia as the sounds of the picnic continued outside. A pinched-faced man with a shiny head and small glasses, Pratt gave off a studious and almost delicate air. He looked run ragged from months of campaigning. Abby had a hard time imagining him holding a rifle, let alone leading the Vermont infantry to puncture the Confederate line at Appomattox.

“Mr. Pratt,” Abby said, worried her voice sounded hoarse. The exchange with May had left her feeling out of breath. “You can expect the full support of the Sisterhood of Bethany in your first term. Whatever you need from us, please, let us know.”

“In exchange,” Euphemia said, coolly passing Abby a glass of water, “we trust we can count on your support once you’ve taken office.”

Pratt inhaled through his nose and held the breath, looking upward, then brought his head down in a slow, deliberate nod. Something about it felt condescending to Abby. It was a gesture she’d seen priests make, on the occasions she’d attended Mass with friends, when the priest was about to launch into a particularly scathing homily.

“As your friend, Mrs. Van Cleve, so aptly noted…” His nose twitched slightly, and he sat forward to button his waistcoat. “I look forward to having the opportunity to scour this city. To set it back on its proper, God-fearing path.”

Abby set her cut-glass tumbler in her lap. It sweated through her skirt. “Are you proposing anything in particular?”

He smiled at her sadly, preparing her for news that might hurt. “The Bethany Home’s reputation is not what it once was, Mrs. Mendenhall. When former inmates are going to the press—”

“We’ve helped more than five thousand women and children, Mr. Pratt,” Euphemia interrupted him. “I hardly think one vocal, dissatisfied girl negates that.”

“I don’t believe it’s only one girl. Inmates coming and going, engaging in immoral activities right under your roof. Occult activities.”

“Preposterous,” Abby sputtered. Beside her, Euphemia snapped open her fan.

“We have the same objective, Mrs. Mendenhall, Mrs. Overlock.” Pratt opened his palms. “We’d all like to see an end to the social evil in this city. I’ll ensure that happens within a year.”

“How do you intend to do that?” Abby asked.

He snorted, as though the answer were right in front of them. “Shut down the red-light districts. Seize the madams’ properties on First and Second Avenues, and on Main Street.”

“Many of them are owners, not tenants,” Euphemia countered. “I can’t imagine the law allows you to dispossess them at your will.”

“They belong in prison, Mrs. Overlock. They’ve broken the law in those houses, and so the buildings must be seized. The era of tacit approval, of this outrageous system of fines, is soon to be over.”

Abby pressed her hands to her skirt to stay their trembling. “The social evil will not disappear if you simply shut down the district. It will disperse and become more dangerous, for all involved. Unless, of course, you find a way to dissuade the clients.”

Pratt cocked his head at her. A child shrieked outside, making them all jump. Abby was relieved they hadn’t heard a peep from the second floor, from May or Faith.

“As a Christian woman, you’re telling me you don’t want me to close the houses of ill fame, Mrs. Mendenhall?”

Abby bit the inside of her cheek. When she and Junius were younger and argued more, when he was sharper, he liked to tell her she didn’t understand how money worked. Perhaps to spite him, to prove him wrong, she’d become the Sisterhood’s treasurer. Now she understood a great deal about money. The men of this city spent an awful lot of it on women. It then went into the pockets of the madams, of the girls, and, through the city’s vice tax, to the Sisterhood of Bethany. It went into the bellies of women and children in the form of food, it bought warm clothing, it purchased the very chair Abby sat on now. It kept the lights on and the fires burning in the parlor houses, and, yes, despite her disapproval of what those women had to do to earn a living, she was glad they were clothed and fed.

If the brothels no longer existed, would all that uncollected money be spent on the greater good? Or would men simply hoard it to use on something else?

“If you close the vice district, it will be very hard for the city to collect fines,” she told Pratt. “Without the fines, there will be no Bethany Home.”

He offered her an infuriating, simpering smile. “Without the sporting houses, we will need no Bethany Home. Surely, this is what you’ve prayed for.”

She’d prayed for a gradual end to brothel work, of course she had. Shutting them down in one fell swoop wasn’t the answer. But if she were to say this out loud, Pratt would retort, Then what is the answer? And she wouldn’t know what to say. They couldn’t very well round up every single poverty-stricken woman in this town and give her food, clean garments, and tutelage in a skilled trade. And then guarantee that her employers would pay her fairly. Abby had been trying to do just that, one person at a time, for the past twenty years, and she knew from experience what a daunting task it was.

Pratt shook his head. “Here I thought you’d be grateful for the news,” he said. “To think, two Christian women who’d rather see the madams win. Well, you still have the City Council on your side, though I’ve heard that more than a few of them have concerns about the Bethany Home.” Pratt stood. “Thank you for the invitation. It really was a very nice party.”

Abby and Euphemia didn’t see him out. They heard his aide close the front door, hard.

“Do you think it’s serious this time?” Euphemia murmured. Her fanning had slowed. She pressed the lace to her lower lip, staring off into nothing.

“No,” Abby said decisively. “The Bethany Home will stand.” It had to. Yet her thoughts drifted once again to money. The previous month, their expenses had been near eight hundred dollars; their revenue, including donations, little more than nine. No one else, save Euphemia, knew what razor-thin margins they maintained here. Abby didn’t want to concern her fellow board members. Worse, she worried they’d take it as a sign to appoint someone younger, with a keener mind and fresh ideas, as treasurer.

“We still need to pay the greengrocer,” Euphemia said quietly. This afternoon, the man would return to collect his empty crates as well as payment for so many pumpkins and apples. Abby stared with glazed eyes at Charlotte’s portrait hanging on the parlor wall.

Something slid into place in her mind. A bolt shunted out of its lock. She stood.

“I’ll be back in a moment,” she told Euphemia.

The hallway between the parlor and the office was mercifully empty. Abby shut herself into the office and unlocked the desk drawer. Faith’s money was just where she’d left it. Without touching the gold, she retrieved four five-dollar bills.

When she handed twenty dollars to Euphemia, back in the parlor, Euphemia stared at the money, mystified.

“That should more than cover the grocer’s bill,” Abby told her. “Why don’t you pick up this month’s coal as well, tomorrow morning? I’ve a few errands to run with Miss Rhoades.”

“Is this a donation?” Euphemia asked. “Has it been logged?”

“I’ll log it. Thank you for fetching the coal.”

Abby’s body tingled anxiously. She longed to go home and hide, yet she couldn’t stand the idea of sitting down. After she saw Euphemia out, she climbed the stairs as quickly as her tired legs would allow, gripping the banister.

She found May lying back on her bed, eyes closed, huddled under her thin blanket. Faith had pulled a stool beside her and was wringing a cloth over the washbasin. She’d been about to place it over May’s forehead, but she jumped when she saw Abby, and May flung her elbows back and sat half upright.

“Mrs. Mendenhall,” she said hoarsely. “I apologize. Last night—”

“Enough.” It was hard for Abby to see May this way, clearly in the grips of a bad bout of bottle-ache. May, one of her favorites, if she was being honest. She felt no favoritism for the girl right now. May’s recklessness, on today of all days, could help cost them everything, if Herbert Block mentioned her ungainly behavior in his Tribune piece.

“Miss Lombard, you have three weeks. Miss Rhoades and I will make work and housing arrangements, but I want you to prepare yourself to leave this place.”

May cried out. Broken blood vessels clustered around her eyes; the eyes themselves were bloodshot, as if she’d vomited recently. Abby didn’t want to know.

“I need more time.” May’s face crumpled like a child’s. Abby tried to steel her heart against it.

“Three weeks is more time, Miss Lombard.” Abby took an unsteady step backward when she noticed Faith glaring at her, eyes narrowed like a viper’s, her lips moving slightly, as though she was whispering an incantation.

Rubbish, Abby reminded herself. It was all rubbish.

“That’ll be all,” she said, but her stomach was in knots, and she left the room in a hurry.