Paula Cohen - Gramercy Park

For all her illness and her shorn hair and her strange, solitary existence, for all that she belongs nowhere … she is still a young girl like any other; she had had dreams, once, of a gown like a froth of pearls and moonlight; had pictured herself, light as a bubble, the shining magnet of all eyes.

Chadwick watches her while she is far away, lost in the pretty dream. Not himself being prey to visions of pearls and moonlight, his passionless gaze misses no sign of her recent illness: the restless fingers folding and unfolding the napkin in her lap, the tiny, nervous twitch of a muscle at the corner of her eye … and yet her color is definitely better today, and she looks less drawn and exhausted. She starts suddenly, and flushes under his close gaze, catching herself.

“My dear, is something wrong?” he says, but it is another moment before she answers him.

“No … no, nothing,” she replies in confusion, her head bowed, her hand at her throat. “I did not mean to startle you. I … I was only …”

“You were daydreaming. Was it a pleasant dream?”

“It was nothing. Only …” She colors again. “Nothing.”

“As you wish, my dear. I hope my tales did not overexcite you. Rest is what you need, now, and quiet. Waltzing can be arranged when you are well, if that is what you wish.”

But not in the arms that had held her in her dream just now. She can see him still, standing in the doorway with the candle lighting his face, but she is what she is, and he would run from her if he knew the truth …

“Come,” Chadwick says jovially, “let us speak of something else. Let us speak of you.” He drains his teacup and pushes it from him. “Well? And how have you passed your time since I saw you last?”

“Very quietly.”

“Of course you have, my dear. As you always do, in fact.”

“Yes.” She avoids meeting his eyes.

“A life as constant as the North Star, as retired as a nun’s. Never any change, never any new sights, never any company other than my own.”

“No.” The untouched food on her plate seems suddenly to take on new fascination for her, and she pushes at it with her fork.

“My poor child. How you must long, at times, for some company. The hours must pass slowly for you, with no diversions.”

“Margaret keeps me company. And I have my needlework.”

“But Margaret is only a maid, and she has her chores to do. And needlework engages the fingers, not the brain, leaving one a great deal of time to think.”

He pauses.

“Tell me, my dear, do you still worry about your future? I have told you that you have nothing to fear. I will care for you, come what may.”

Clara’s fork clatters into her plate. “I am very grateful to you.”

“I am certain of it. And yet I do not do this for the sake of your gratitude; I do it because to do anything less would be inconceivable. It is not merely a matter of Christian duty. You know, don’t you, that in the years since my good friend Henry brought you here you have become … dear to me.”

“Yes.” The word is a whisper.

“And I had hoped that, over time, you might have been growing fond of me too.”

“I am … fond of you.”

“Are you, my dear? Thank you. You make me very happy by saying so. I think your dear guardian would be pleased as well. He was, after all, my closest friend. Nevertheless, I have noticed”—he is thoughtful—“that since his death you have ceased to address me as you used to. ‘Uncle Chadwick,’ you were wont to call me, once upon a time. ‘Uncle Chadwick,’ you would say, ‘would you care for more tea?’ Or ‘Uncle Chadwick, won’t you stay to dinner?’” He repeats the words—“Uncle Chadwick … Uncle Chadwick …”—drawing them out, admiring the sound of them. “I must confess that, as a man with no family ties, I had never been called ‘uncle’ by anyone until you began to do so. It was such a pretty habit, my dear; I quite enjoyed it. Why do you no longer call me that?”

When she makes no reply he probes further. “Have we become strangers to one another?”

“No. Not strangers.” He can barely hear her.

“I am glad of that too, my dear. Please understand that I want neither your gratitude nor the approbation of the world for what I have done. Kindness, as we know, is its own reward, and I dislike even mentioning the matter. And what the consequences would have been—to you, child—had there been no one to step in and shoulder the burdens that my poor friend, your guardian, laid down when he died, leaving you—need I say it?—with nothing, I need not go into, for I know that you know them all too well. Just think, dear girl, of where you might be right now, had I not kept this roof to shelter you.”

Clara bows her head. Months of constant reminders of what might have been have not accustomed her to her utter indebtedness to this man, or blunted the horror of what, without his continued goodwill, might yet still be.

The wretchedness that awaits her without his help almost stops her heart. She has no friends, she has no home, no income, no livelihood, no accomplishments. She owns nothing but the contents of her wardrobe, not even the furnishings of her two rooms. Work she would welcome, but to do what? She has neither skill nor strength enough to be a maid or a shop girl, nor sufficient education to be a governess. And who would hire her, after all, to care for their innocent children? As for references …

She stares blindly out the window. The streets are always there, waiting for her. She wipes her eyes with the heels of both hands, but the tears—always there, too, just behind her eyes—continue to well up steadily and quietly, dropping to land, like pearls, on the black lace of her bodice.

As before, Chadwick watches her, unmoved and unmoving.

“I am sorry to distress you, my dear,” he says, “but although it is true that, as I said, I dislike mentioning the matter, it will perhaps be necessary to remind you, from time to time, of your position. I hope that I will not have to do it often; nothing would cause me greater pain.”

Clara, unable to speak as yet, nods her head.

“What does that mean, my dear? Does that mean that we understand each other?”

“Yes.”

“I cannot hear you, my dear.”

“Yes. We understand each other.”

“Say it again, please, so that I may be certain of what I think I heard.”

“We understand each other.”

“We understand each other … Uncle Chadwick,” he says.

“We understand each other.” She swallows her tears. “Uncle Chadwick.”

“Good. Then tell me, dear child,” he says, bringing his face close to hers, “just how long you intended to wait before telling me of your visitor of two days ago. Or were you never going to tell me at all?”

She shrinks back in her chair, the tears still spilling down her cheeks.

“I did not … I did not think … that it mattered.”

“Did you not? Or did you merely think that I would never know? Oh, no, my dear,” he says, “don’t turn your head away. If that was your innocent thought, let me make one thing perfectly clear to you, so that we need have no misunderstandings, ever again. Everything about you matters to me. Everything you think, everything you do … everything that happens to you is of the utmost concern to me.” He smiles. “Because I care for you.”

He leans back expansively. “You are wondering just how I know, of course. I should let you believe that I can read your mind and hear your thoughts, that I am a magician—but you half believe that already. No, the explanation is much simpler than that: your visitor, himself, told me of his visit during the course of a delightful conversation we had the evening before last. You see, he was the guest of honor at Mrs. Astor’s gala.”