31 Bond Street Part 18

Render thou up thy half-devoured babes, And from the cradles of eternity, Where millions lie lulled to their portioned sleep By the deep murmuring stream of pa.s.sing things.

The stanza came from The Daemon of the World, a long poem by Percy Bysshe Sh.e.l.ley, and Elisabeth had read it aloud, years ago, tackling the hundreds of lines over many sittings. They sparred at a compet.i.tion to see who could commit the most lines to memory. She labored over it and won, by walking around the house as she performed her ch.o.r.es, singing out large portions. But he knew that the poem held her fascination because of a later stanza. When she had first discovered it, it spoke to her, not of the universal, but the personal, as if it had been written for them alone.

She looked around in wonder and beheld Henry, who kneeled in silence by her couch, Watching her sleep with looks of speechless love, And the bright beaming stars That through the cas.e.m.e.nt shone.

January 31, 1857 The dropping of the horse's hooves made a hollow ring. A sharp gust lifted the horse's mane. The brick walls and iron fences along Bond Street were covered with tangled twigs from the leafless vines that twisted and sc.r.a.ped in the wind. Samuel pulled the reins to halt the horse in front of 31 Bond Street. He winced when he heard the metal click again, but it was from the release of the gun c.o.c.k as Dr. Burdell returned the gun to his waist.

Dr. Burdell descended without a word and paused under the lamplight for his key. He pulled a heavy key ring from his cloak and slid the largest iron key into the door, then turned and snarled: "Be off to the stable." Samuel trembled at his release, and then plodded the horse along the block to the stable door, his rage returning, for the Bible says: There shall be no reward to the evil man; the candle of the wicked shall be put out.

Inside the house, the lamps were left low, with just enough light to illuminate the way up the stairs. The key to his office door fit into the lock with a smooth and noiseless turn. He moved across his office and threw some coals on top of the dying embers of the grate. After turning up a lamp, he took off his cloak and folded it on the sofa. He took off his overshoes and placed them next to the fire. He checked the contents of the satchel, opening a drawstring bag and sifting his hand pleasurably through the gold. He took the satchel into the wardrobe pa.s.sage and closed the door. He pulled out the single drawer under the hanging clothes, near the floor, and lifted the shelf that covered the low drawer. It revealed a hatch. Inside the hole was a ladder that descended, and he lowered himself down, descending fourteen feet, deep into a hiding s.p.a.ce inside the thick parlor wall that contained the ma.s.sive sliding door that separated the two parlors. He brought the satchel down with him. He enjoyed the descent. It was dark; it was silent. He deposited the satchel and the two pistols at the bottom and climbed back up.

He stepped back into his office and looked at the clock on the mantel. It was ten minutes past midnight. He noticed that the ledger on his desk was open with pale lines and inked entries, with orderly dollar signs in correct columns. There was no need to share. Not with Wicken, and not with Emma. Control was of the essence, and if necessary, control was the ability to silence, exerted at incremental moments. Such a moment had arrived. Emma would be in bed. Should he pull the cord for her to come downstairs, or should he go up with a rag and a cloth to place over her face? He stood up and walked over to the sliding panel under his washbasin and bent down to look at the powders in the hidden cabinet, lined up in gla.s.s bottles. Laudanum and ether and cocaine. And behind a crystal bottle of strychnine.

As he crouched down low, reaching into the cabinet, he did not hear the movement on the carpet until the shadow was at his back. From behind, a sharp sliver of ice descended into the side of his neck, deep and swift. Colors flashed across his eyes. He cowered, lowering his head into his arms and covering his face against the dark blows that now penetrated into his back, in and out. He was overcome by the sensation of his own tearing skin and muscle. He choked back dark air as an arm grabbed him from behind, yanking his hair, exposing his throat. The blade sliced the thin membrane of his neck, and fluid filled his mouth. He stood up, blinded by the flow of blood, staggering like a bull, and turned toward his attacker, who prevented his escape, as the dagger hit him, again and again, now from the front, thrusting into his torso and pus.h.i.+ng him against the shaft of steel. A carrion of birds ripped into his flesh. He slipped to the ground as if into a spiral, floating and twirling, becoming smaller and smaller, diminis.h.i.+ng into a bottomless abyss.

"d.a.m.n you," said a voice at his ear. "d.a.m.n you."

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX.

May 15, 1857 The entire city had come out for the last day. People arrived in droves, filling up the courtroom until the bailiffs threw open the sliding doors to the Marine Court room next to the Supreme Court, so that entire room filled as well. So dense was the crowd on the stairways and in front of the buildings and in the adjoining rooms, that the courthouse seemed packed with half of the population of the city. A file of people climbed up the tight spiral stair to the balcony so that there was not an inch of standing room unoccupied, with men squeezed tight between one another's elbows. James Snarky found a spot on the floor at the railing and sat with his legs dangling over.

The antic.i.p.ation ended when the Judge's gavel dropped, introducing the final speeches, with the prosecution having the advantage of closing last. Henry Clinton placed his notes on a small podium and walked away from them as he launched into his speech from memory, facing the twelve jurors, speaking with pa.s.sion and conviction, pausing only for emphasis and effect. He asked the jury to be as certain of Emma Cunningham's innocence as he was, and as were her daughters sitting beside her. He asked them to entertain all of the scientific certainties that eliminated her partic.i.p.ation in this murder: notably the lack of a murder weapon and the brutality of the attack. She had no means to dispose of the weapon, nor of the b.l.o.o.d.y clothes. And he asked them to entertain the inconsistency of the motive: if she murdered from pa.s.sion or greed to obtain the Doctor's wealth and possessions, why would she do it in the very home she hoped to acquire, in the presence of her children?

Clinton had no doubt that the twelve men were attending to his words carefully, for this is when juries listen most deeply, and he knew to appeal to their strong intuition and principle. After an hour-long speech, he asked them to seek truth with the best of their ability, and he knew by the scrutiny and resolve on their faces as he took his seat, that they would give it their very best try.

When it was the prosecution's turn, Hall stood close to the jury box. He spoke intimately with his silky voice, his delivery more modulated than his thunderous opening. He laid out the complexities and irregularities of the facts of the night, and those of the relations.h.i.+p between Emma Cunningham and Dr. Burdell. "Do not be fooled into believing that motherhood is intrinsically sacred," he intoned softly, with both hands on the jury's bar as he played upon the mysterious idea that motive lies far under the surface of things. "Even a frail woman, a mother, can be led to engage in the most base human actions." Hall's skill had an impact, and the jury was rapt. Hall knew that for simple, G.o.d-fearing men, there was nothing more painful than to reconcile a divided point of view.

Mrs. Cunningham wept during the Attorney General's summing up, and she sat bowed under the weight of her veil, as if her physical system had become prostrate. After the summaries were completed, Judge Davies gave his charge to the jury: "Gentleman of the jury, you will now retire to deliberate amongst yourselves, and form a decision in the case of People versus Cunningham. The prisoner at the bar stands charged with one of the highest crimes known to the law, that of taking the life of a human being-Harvey Burdell-on the night of the thirty-first of January last." His words seemed to reverberate beyond the courtroom, throughout the silent city. "For those members of the jury who have read this story in the newspapers before this trial began, do not be misled by anything but what you have heard in this courtroom. I must emphasize that the jury may not discuss any evidence or testimonies besides what was presented to you here."

He clarified his instructions with regard to the points of law for malice aforethought, premeditated design to kill, and circ.u.mstantial evidence. "The circ.u.mstances all taken together must be of a conclusive nature and tendency, and producing a reasonable and moral certainty that the accused, and no one else, committed the offense charged. In the case of doubt, it is imperative to acquit than to condemn."

It was precisely four o'clock when the jury returned. It was generally believed that the jury would arrive at a conclusion that afternoon, and after having been out for three hours, they returned to the courtroom and announced that they were in agreement. The folding doors to the adjoining Marine Court room were closed, to keep any ma.s.sive outpouring of feeling at the rendition of the verdict. Thus, some hundreds of people, who had been in attendance earlier in the day, were deprived of witnessing the most important scene of all.

James Snarky sat in the balcony, mashed up against the railing, his legs dangling over the side, watching the swirl of activity below. The bailiff rushed over to the jury room door and opened it with a flourish. Judge Davies tugged on his robes, Oakey Hall stared solemnly at his notes before him, and s.h.i.+fted the weight of his crossed legs. Barnaby Thayer ran his hand through his unruly dark hair. The jurymen filed in, each one walking with the peculiar gait and personality of the man's age and occupation. The room was deadly quiet, and yet it was a ballet of antic.i.p.ation.

After the jurors took their seats, the jury foreman called upon them to answer to their names. When this was done, the Judge asked: "Gentlemen of the jury, have you agreed upon your verdict?"

The foreman replied, "We have."

An officer of the court asked Mrs. Cunningham to stand up, remove her veil, and turn her unveiled face to the jury box. She stood, stooped forward, her hands gripping the railing in front of her box. Helen and Augusta sat on either side of her. Augusta's eyes were trained at a spot upward at the ceiling biting her lip, whereas Helen's eyes were trained on her mother, as if ready to catch her if she were to drop. Then the clerk said: "Prisoner, look upon the jurors; jurors look upon the prisoner. How say you, gentlemen? Do you find Emma Cunningham, otherwise called Burdell, guilty or not guilty?"

The foreman said, in a not very distinct voice, "Not guilty." Mrs. Cunningham appeared not to hear the foreman's reply. She stooped down and asked Helen what the verdict was, and on being told, fell back into her daughter's arms. There were some attempts at applause that were immediately suppressed.

Judge Davies said, "Gentlemen of the jury, you say that you find Emma Cunningham, otherwise called Burdell, not guilty of the murder and felony of which she stands indicted, so say you all?

One after another, each jury member read the verdict of "not guilty."

There were no cheers, as often trials become like c.o.c.kfights, with spectators picking a winning team, but there was excitement in the room as the conclusion was repeated from man to man. The Judge then thanked the jury for the attention that they had bestowed upon the trial during each stage of its progress, and discharged them from further attendance.

Emma was supported out of the court and taken to one of the judge's chambers, where a crowd immediately hastened to swarm around her, curious to see her response to her sudden acquittal, but she was hurried inside, with her daughters and her legal team. She was kept behind closed doors until much later, when she was hustled to a back entrance where a s.h.i.+ny black carriage had been brought up. Across the city, the newsboys crowed. The newspapers had kept the presses stoked, and within minutes, had printed up flyers with the verdict, and the boys ran around town screaming the news, tossing the flyers. "Buy your paper tomorrow and read all about it," they wailed. The stealthy exit was successful, for the carriage pulled away from the courthouse unnoticed. Emma sat next to her daughters, her veil lifted up as she looked out the window with stunned confusion at the pa.s.sing lights and buildings, the city blurring through her tears. She was heading back home, finally free.

Late into the night, small knots of people gathered in front of 31 Bond Street with the expectation that Mrs. Cunningham might appear at the windows. They were disappointed. Occasionally they would raise a feeble cheer, with the intent to draw her forth. The shutters and curtains remained closed, and she did not make herself visible, and after the dusk had darkened into night, the last disappointed straggler departed.

"City of New York," sketched and drawn on stone by C. Parsons. Published by N. Currier, 1856. Library of Congress.

Part IV.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN.

July 29, 1857.

Henry Clinton crossed the large open room, surrounded by tall windows at the level of the treetops. There were planks of wood laid across sawhorses and workmen's boxes filled with tools. Just outside the window, a flag drooped on its pole. The room was empty of workmen, who had taken off for lunch. Sawdust hung in a yellow haze, suspended in the sultry summer air. He opened one of the windows wide, heaving it up to the level of the top sash, but the air outside was still and offered no relief. His new office on Astor Place was just a jumble of construction, but by the beginning of September it would have room for a junior staff and twenty clerks. With the success of the verdict, a deluge of cases had come his way. Criminals love a sensational trial, and they flock like gamblers to a winning firm. There were enough clients flocking to him, so that he could pick and choose his cases, and expand the firm as large as he would like. And he had chosen the location on Astor Place because he had promised Elisabeth that the new firm of Clinton and Thayer would be within walking distance of home.

He placed a pile of papers on a makes.h.i.+ft desk on a plank of wood. That morning, he had been to a brief session at Surrogate's Court for a hearing on the estate of Harvey Burdell. The Burdell family was litigating Emma's claim as his spouse to receive his property, and the unfinished business had droned along during summer sessions as various members of the bar vanished from the city, escaping the heat. Bit by bit, presentations were made. The newspapers followed the proceedings on back pages, but the interest in the murder case had not entirely dissipated. The papers ran readers' letters with sharp opinions about the verdict, and opinions on Emma's guilt or innocence. Many New Yorkers believed she had escaped prosecution through the cunning of her lawyers, escaping punishment for her infamous deed. Others believed the verdict to be entirely justified. Occasionally, in an effort to drum up circulation, the Herald or the Tribune ran a front-page headline: "Who killed Dr. Burdell?"

At home, Elisabeth set to work putting the household back in order. Maids had been rehired, and Mrs. Fullerton was cooking around the clock. When the trial ended in May, Elisabeth had wistfully waited for John to return. "When will he pay me a visit?" she asked. When he never appeared, she decided to contact his mother to inquire after him. Clinton had Snarky find the address. Elisabeth sent a letter to the address Snarky provided, 25 Rector Street. When the letter was returned with a red pen scratched across the address, "No longer in Residence," she became even more determined, so she went down to Rector Street herself. The landlord of the little house said that John's mother had moved away, but he didn't know where. He hadn't seen her son in a long while, but the woman was doing poorly with rheumatism, and a relative had come and taken her away.

Clinton tugged at his collar, which chafed in the heat. He was sweating in a linen suit. A vest had been necessary for the morning appearance before the Judge. The final papers had been submitted, and if successful, Emma would be granted a share of Dr. Burdell's estate. The Judge himself was about to take a holiday and would return with his decision in mid-August, so Clinton planned to leave now for a week at a cottage in Hastings-on-Hudson. At the house in Hastings, there were rocking chairs on the porch and gingerbread along the cornices and roses that climbed the porch pillars. Stiff breezes came up the hill from the Hudson and flapped all the curtains. Clinton and Elisabeth sat on the porch at night long after the fireflies and the moon came out.

The workmen reappeared and took up their tools. Saws started to grind away, blending in with noises from the street. Clinton directed the men to various tasks that needed to be completed while he was gone, and then he gathered up his files. First he would stop at Bond Street to see how Emma was doing before he left the city and to give her the latest news.

As he made his way down Bond Street, the arcade of lindens and Dutch elms drooped in the still air. He arrived at the house and lifted the latch on the iron gate that hung crooked on its hinge. One of the stoop ornaments was missing, and the black paint on the front door was worn and scuffed. The bell pull was broken, so he rapped the knocker against the door. After rapping and pausing several times, he heard footsteps. Emma opened the heavy door, looking smaller than he remembered. She wore a dress that seemed dusty and slightly soiled. Her hair was pulled back, but there were pieces that were adrift across her face. She pushed them away.

"Henry, it's very nice to see you. I am so pleased that you have dropped by."

"I sent a note over earlier, to let you know I was coming," he said.

"A note? Oh, yes. There are so many calling cards, that they get buried in the pile." She opened the door wide and stepped aside. "Come in." He walked into the hall and looked for a place to put his hat. He seemed to remember that there had been a hat rack, but now there was no furniture in the hall, except the tall clock, its pendulum still, so he kept his hat in his hand and went into the parlor. The room was warm and airless in the July heat. He wondered how she was managing.

"Please sit down," she said in her most engaging voice. She pulled her skirt aside delicately and sat on one of the parlor chairs. He placed his hat on a table and looked around. The parlor looked as if Emma had tried to clean it. There was a dustbin abandoned in the corner, with sc.r.a.ps, and a rag on the mantel with a bar of lye soap. The wool weave of the carpet was worn through in large patches from the hundreds of feet that had trampled it during the winter months of the inquest. In some places, the floorboards were bare. Smoke stains left cloudy trails along the top of the walls, leaving the plasterwork mottled and grey. The windows facing the garden were streaked; it seemed that Emma had begun cleaning them, and abandoned the job, half-finished.

"How are Augusta and Helen? Are they well?" he asked. In the cavernous silence of the upper floors, there was no sign that anyone else was home.

"Oh, quite well. Augusta has a beau. I try to have her entertain at home, but she is always invited everywhere."

"Really? I am pleased," he said, though he could hardly imagine Augusta, who had been the most damaged by events, entertaining anyone, especially a suitor.

"Can I get you some tea?" she asked.

"Is it iced?" The minute he asked, he regretted it. Ice delivery would be a luxury she could hardly afford.

"Well, perhaps," she said thoughtfully. "I have been drinking hot tea all day long." She grinned broadly, as if something were funny or amusing. "I shall ask if I can get you ice for the tea. Perhaps I can just ring." She started to get up from her chair, but as she rose, she appeared to be having difficulty, and she swayed slightly.

"Please, never mind. I am fine without tea, hot or cold," said Clinton. "I would rather concentrate on the business at hand. I will be leaving for a week, and I want to let you know how things stand."

"Are you going to Saratoga?" she asked, pleasantly.

"No, we go to Hastings, along the Hudson."

"Oh, that must be lovely."

"Well, it will be, for Elisabeth. She loves roses, and there are a profusion of them. She spends all morning cutting away, and then more bloom overnight."

"Pink or red?" asked Emma, as if nothing delighted her more.

"Pink, I think." He was surprised at her composure. She looked haggard, but her spirits seemed gay.

"You might want to get away yourself. You are looking tired, and the country air is the best tonic."

"I am afraid I cannot leave. I have some pressing social engagements involving my daughters. I have lost so much time." There could be little in the city in the way of social engagements, and he doubted she had much to occupy her besides the household, which was crumbling around her. "I will be back next week," he said, "and that is when the magistrate shall determine the decision on the house and possessions, so perhaps I can convince you to take a trip then." It seemed as if the windows hadn't been opened since January. Dust motes floated weightless in the rays of flat yellow light that managed to come through the blinds. An oily film sat on top of everything. "The Surrogate's Court has nearly finished hearing the case," he told her. "But there has been no judgment because the judge will take a holiday, but when he returns, he shall deliver his verdict. Fortunately for us, Dr. Burdell's family did not present much of a case."

"Harvey had no use for his brothers," said Emma, solicitously. She spoke of Dr. Burdell as she always did lately, as if he were about to walk into the room any moment and enter into familiar banter.

"Nor they for him. I think their feuds dismiss the claim that he desired his estate to go to his family. There is no proof that he ever made a will at all."

"For someone who was so businesslike, Harvey was often careless about personal matters," said Emma, primly.

"It is a good chance the judge will rule in your favor. A widow without heirs inherits one half the property. The other half will go to the family. I want to warn you, unless we uncover some of the other a.s.sets, perhaps the house will need to be sold to make payments to the family."

"Well, he did want to sell the house," said Emma, seeming tired and confused, "so we could move to Fifth Avenue."

"There is no need to worry about a sale yet, I am sure you will be here a whileas a matter of fact, it is best that you keep the house occupied so that others do not take liberties. I hope it is not too difficult for you, staying in this large house." She looked thin and did not seem to be eating well. It was too hot to use the ovens. He wondered how often she was getting out.

"Oh no, not at all. I have plenty of company, and I occasionally go to the market myself." She wearily moved the stray hairs from her face again, and he saw a streak of dirt across one of her cheeks. Was she trying to convince him of her fort.i.tude? It was a folly to think that she could maintain this house without servants.

"Do people still notice you, at the market, or along the streets? I should think they would have tired of you by now."

"All the neighbors are so kind to me." She touched her fingers to her temple, as if she had a sudden headache. Her isolation must be complete, he thought. Almost every house on Bond Street was shuttered for the summer, and those few remaining would hardly be embracing their infamous neighbor.

Emma touched her forehead again, and Clinton sensed that he was wearying her.

"Well, I should be off." He stood up. Rivulets of sweat had formed along his neck and into his collar. "I am glad to find you managing. I will be back next week. We shall know the decision by then." He made a slight bow, and she stood to follow him out.

On the stoop, he placed his hat on his head. The house at 31 Bond Street would be difficult to sell. It would most likely stand empty for many months, a tarnished blight on this polished block, a house of infamy, causing the neighbors great concern. After a while, the stigma of the murder would lessen and a buyer would come along who would restore the insides with fresh paint and finally purge the house of its notoriety. With the sale of the house, there would be enough to see that Emma would be taken care of. Depending on what remained, he might be able to shave off some for his costs, although the success of the trial made a fee unnecessary. But first, he was glad to be departing for the country. He greatly needed the rest and the time alone with Elisabeth.

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT.

August 4, 1857 When Emma awoke, the shutters of the bedroom were shut and the full glare of the morning sun came through the slats. She slipped on some house shoes and knocked over an empty gla.s.s with a white film around the edge off of the night table. She picked the gla.s.s up from the floor and placed it on her vanity, which was piling up with odds and ends. Ever since she had returned, she had done nothing but walk up and down the tall staircases, making note of items that were missing or out of place. Eventually, she believed the house would return to its previous state, the way a dial on a clock worked the day back to the beginning.

What time was it? The tall clock in the hall no longer chimed. One day she had opened the gla.s.s and used the key to wind it up. The bra.s.s pendulums began to swing, and she heard the ticking sound and saw the minute hand jump on the dial. She set the time, satisfied that it was synchronized correctly. Later that day, when she pa.s.sed by again, she saw that the clock had stilled. She gave it repeated windings, and the clock would tick on for a random amount of time, and then peter out, for no reason that she could discern. She even pushed it away from the wall to look at the gears in the shaft, but the intricate placement of the machinery left her puzzled.

It seemed that everything in the house was run-down. While she was in jail, Dr. Burdell's family had sold some furniture, unjustly it appears, for the owners.h.i.+p of the house and its contents were as yet unresolved. Mr. Clinton saw that she was awarded a sum of money for the missing furniture. She put the money in a drawer. Each day she would dip into the box and walk to the markets with her basket, and then return to her ch.o.r.es and meals, but as the weeks ticked by, she barely seemed to make headway on the overall improvement of the house.

She opened the bedroom shutters and put on a housecoat. From the energy of the traffic, it seemed to be well past ten in the morning. Although most of her neighbors had left for the summer, there were a few who still remained in the city during the week, along with servants who served the houses and stables. By afternoon it seemed that everyone had retreated far from the heat, and the leaves hung limp in the direct sun.

She descended the stairs. The door to Doctor Burdell's office was slightly ajar. The wall had been whitewashed over the wallpaper where the blood had splattered, and the carpet had been removed leaving the floorboards bare. Emma descended to the kitchen, and as she entered, she heard the scurrying sounds of mice in the brick oven. The furnaces smelled of old coal and the house had a lingering odor of rotting eggs from leaking gas. Today she would buy some beeswax and mix some citrus into the wax as she polished, to freshen the stale air in the parlor.

There was a loaf of bread in the pie cabinet, but it was hard. She felt light-headed, so she sat down at the kitchen table. She couldn't remember if she had eaten the night before, only that she had mixed a drink with laudanum and lay down on her bed, listening to the house creak and settle in the dark. She would send a note to Augusta to stop by the apothecary for more powder. Augusta was living with the old woman named Nellie, who had once cared for her and Helen when they were younger. After the acquittal, Augusta had chosen to remain there. Helen was still living with the relation, on Second Avenue. Both girls had resisted moving back to Bond Street because the house made them uncomfortable. Emma a.s.sured them that when the fall season arrived, everything would be fixed and they would all live together, and the girls would have piano lessons and pretty new wallpaper in their bedroom. But the summer dragged on, the only visits were from her daughters, and from Mr. Clinton, who stopped by with reports on legal matters.

Today she would dress and go to the market. Every day she made this plan. There was no hurry. As she headed up the kitchen stairs, she noticed an envelope sitting inside the vestibule, dropped through the slot of the front door. When had it come? Usually a messenger left an abrupt set of rings to alert the owner of the house to a delivery. Had she slept through the bell, or was it out of order?

She took it into the parlor and sat before a table that she used as a makes.h.i.+ft desk. She opened it smoothly with a letter opener that she had salvaged from Dr. Burdell's desk set. It was on dusty grey stationery, with a blue crest.

My dear Mrs. Cunningham, I hope that you and your daughters are well acclimated to Bond Street. I have hesitated calling on you until you have fully settled in.

I regret not being in touch with you during the length of your ordeal, but I have spent most of the past months at my plantation in Louisiana. I am now in New York, and wish to extend my congratulations on the success of your legal proceedings.

Rather than put you to the trouble of returning my note, I will call on you at home at noon tomorrow to extend my solicitations.

I hope I find you well, With affection,

Ambrose Wicken.

She anxiously searched the top of the letter, but it wasn't dated. She wasn't even sure what day it was, or if the letter had come yesterday or this morning. There was no food or refreshments in the house. She put down the letter, thinking she had just enough time to dress and get to the market before noon. She dressed quickly, but with care. Had he returned for Augusta?

She headed for the market at the Bowery, and as she crossed the busy intersection, she was startled by the dangerous approach of a stagecoach. Suddenly, a hand was at her elbow. "Allow me," said Ambrose Wicken, guiding her across.