Caleb Carr - The Angel Of Darkness

“Cyrus,” I said, looking up through the big tree boughs and branches to the sky, “how long do you figure it’ll be before the Doctor gives Mrs. Leshko the sack?”

“I don’t know,” he answered, polishing off the last of his food. “But things can’t go on forever like this.”

“Yeah.” I waited a moment before voicing what’d been on my mind since I’d seen Pinkie’s “Little Maid of Acadie” the night before. “Cyrus?”

“Still here.”

“You figure the Doctor might hire Kat? As a maid, I mean.”

The long pause that followed told me clearly what Cyrus thought, but he soon gave out with the words: “Kat’d have to want the work, Stevie. She’s got big ideas. Big plans for herself. I doubt she’d be interested.”

“Yeah. I guess so. I just thought…”

“I know,” he said, trying hard to be sympathetic. “You could ask the Doctor-but like I say, she’d have to want the work.”

I didn’t pursue the topic, and after a few silent minutes we passed on to other things. But the idea had planted itself in my head, and I meant to explore it.

It was past four by the time the Doctor, Mr. Moore, and Miss Howard came out of Delmonico’s-and they didn’t look happy when they did. The Doctor just strode quickly past Cyrus and me, saying “We’ll walk” crisply, and the rest of us fell in with him. I started purposely dragging my steps, as did Cyrus and Miss Howard, while Mr. Moore kept up with the Doctor, talking to him. Neither Cyrus nor I needed to ask what had happened; Miss Howard could read the question in our faces.

“It was awful,” she said. “Word of the investigation into the Institute’s affairs has gotten all over. Even friends of his cut him dead. It was like we weren’t even there. Thank God for Charlie, or it wouldn’t have been tolerable.”

We walked on down Broadway.

It was a predictable reaction, I suppose, from them what likes to call themselves “society,” and while I knew the Doctor would make like he didn’t care, I also knew that in fact it would anger him deeply. For, as Miss Howard had said, there were some few in that society crowd what the Doctor counted as his friends, and to see them retreat into rudeness with the rest… Well, I was just as glad that we had time to walk to Number 808 Broadway. I could only hope that Mr. Moore would be able to get the Doctor refocused on our purpose by the time we got there.

He actually managed that job, or at least as much of it as could reasonably be expected. When we reached the yellow brick building, we found the Isaacson brothers waiting for us, and the Doctor was all business with them. As we went up and into the sixth floor, the conversation turned to how we were going to present the sketching session to our guests. Miss Howard had apparently warned Señora Linares to say nothing about what was really happening, but she went on to tell us that “nothing” wasn’t going to be enough to satisfy the extremely curious Mrs. Cady Stanton. Miss Howard had toyed with the idea of saying that the subject of the sketch was an old friend-or even, again, a relation-of the señora’s, but that wouldn’t explain the latter’s bruises and cuts; and Miss Howard knew that Mrs. Cady Stanton would ask all about those, since husbands beating on their wives was a topic that she’d been lecturing on for decades. In fact, Miss Howard told us, Mrs. Cady Stanton had often been criticized by other women’s rights leaders because she put as much emphasis on trying to change the conditions that caused violence in the home (drunkenness and the like) and on making it easier for women to get out of bad situations by loosening up divorce laws as she did on securing the vote for her sex. I’m bound to say that I saw her point: most of the women in my old neighborhood couldn’t have cared an owl’s hoot about who was president-they were too busy trying to survive the rampages of their husbands.

Anyway, Miss Howard and Mr. Moore were still playing with ideas as to just what lie they were going to present Mrs. Cady Stanton with when the Doctor said that they should just drop the subterfuge and tell the old girl the truth-or rather, most of the truth: there was no reason to say who Señora Linares was exactly and no reason to mention her daughter. We could just explain that she’d been attacked by another woman in Central Park and robbed; if Mrs. Cady Stanton wanted to make more out of it, let her try. Miss Howard didn’t much like that idea, and only gave in when an electrical buzzing device what was connected to a button in the lobby of the building let us know that Señora Linares had arrived. As she went down to retrieve our first guest, it remained obvious that Miss Howard figured “make more out of it” was just what Mrs. Cady Stanton was likely to do.

The señora was in a bit of a state when she first got out of the elevator, convinced that she’d been followed, either by her husband or somebody else. Cyrus was sent down to scout the area but couldn’t spot anyone who seemed to be keeping an eye on Number 808. This offered the señora some consolation, but not much, and it was all she could do to focus on the instructions the Doctor gave her about what she was and was not supposed to say in front of the other women. The sound of the buzzer going off again sent her back into a bit of a panic, but Mr. Moore stayed with her and got her calmed down, while Miss Howard went to fetch the promising painter and the living legend.

None of us really knew what to expect when we heard the elevator rumble back up. I guess I figured some sour old battle-axe smelling of mothballs was going to come barreling in like one of the Furies. I was pretty surprised, then-and so, from the looks on their faces, was everyone else-when a very respectably but fashionably dressed lady walked gracefully through the front door, her hair carefully done up in tight curls and the delicate lace around her neck and chest decorated by a large, pretty cameo. For a minute I thought she must be the painter: based on what I’d seen of women reformers, they didn’t go much for frills and jewelry. But then I saw that the hair was snow white and the skin was sagging and wrinkled, and I knew that she was too old to be the artistic comer Pinkie’d talked about. The eyes, though, had a youthful, alert look about them, which clued me in to the fact that, while this might be somebody’s grandmother, it wasn’t anybody you wanted to treat as such. She carried a brass-handled stick but held herself proud and upright, like the renowned veteran she was: Mrs. Elizabeth Cady Stanton, the only woman who’d had the nerve to go so far as to rewrite the Bible from the woman’s point of view.

Behind her came a younger lady who might’ve been Miss Howard’s older sister, so similar were their looks, dress, and demeanor. Miss Cecilia Beaux had features what were handsome rather than beautiful and what centered on a positively mesmerizing pair of light eyes. She wore a plain button-down blouse with a little ribbon around the neck, as well as a light linen tunic and a simple skirt to match. The common ground between her and Miss Howard seemed to be more than just superficial, too, for they were already chatting away like old friends, Miss Howard telling Miss Beaux about our trip to Pinkie’s and Miss Beaux talking of a similar trip she’d made. In addition, I later learned that the pair shared like backgrounds, both coming from wealthy families (Miss Howard’s, as I’ve said, in the Hudson Valley, Miss Beaux’s in Philadelphia) that thoroughly disapproved of the young ladies’ unusual styles of living.

Introductions were made all around, after which I withdrew quickly into my windowsill and didn’t say a word. You could see in Mrs. Cady Stanton’s face, as she looked from person to person, that she was trying to size the situation up but not getting very far. As Miss Beaux took out her sketching materials and drew up a chair next to the señora, Miss Howard gave out with the fabricated-or, as the Doctor might’ve preferred to call it, incomplete-explanation of what we were about and why we’d engaged Miss Beaux’s services. Mrs. Cady Stanton’s eyes grew narrow at Miss Howard’s words, but when she spoke her voice was pleasant enough: