31 Bond Street. Ellen Horan

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СКАЧАТЬ invited them on rides through the countryside and to recitals at the gazebo in the square. On rainy days Emma and Dr. Burdell played cards in the hotel library while rain spattered the windows, and guests wandered in, looking intently for something to read. While dealing rounds of whist, he confided in her, filling her in on his occupation. He told her that his dental office catered to the teeth of a wealthy uptown clientele. He spoke of the tinctures that he concocted in his small dentistry laboratory. She nodded as she played, not listening much, until he spoke of gold—he said he had replaced gold with an amalgam for filling teeth and the technique had made him rich. He used new metals that were less expensive yet just as effective for fillings, and he could charge his patients as much as others were charging for gold.

      “How clever you must be,” she said. With her cards spread out before her, Emma calculated her next move and landed the winning card.

      “I have created a concoction of chemical powders that I mix with various drugs in doses that have quite eliminated the pain in dental treatment.”

      “I have never had a tooth pulled,” she said, shuddering at the thought.

      “You would hardly know that it was happening. My patients remain quite happy. They experience a feeling of euphoria, a sensation of flying, accompanied by a sense of well-being. Afterward there is soreness, but there are potions to eliminate that, too.” Dr. Burdell dealt again. He shuffled deftly, his surgeon’s hands moving across the table with the slickness of a card shark.

      “Have you thought any more about your finances?” he asked. “I might advise that you consider an investment in open land. Right now there is much activity in the areas surrounding the city.”

      “Well, first, I must secure a new home, for my current lease expires in the fall,” she said. “Augusta is almost nineteen, and I shall need a suitable address to entertain.”

      “I have never understood the need for ladies teas. It seems to me to be a frivolous waste of an afternoon,” replied Dr. Burdell.

      “The entertainment is to attract suitors,” she responded.

      He dealt again, with a slap of cards against the table. “In New York, it’s a large checkbook that makes a man suitable, or so it seems,” he said. “The rest of the courting ritual is a waste of time and money. And as for your finances, I suggest that this is not a wise time to purchase a house in town,” he warned. “Manhattan is much overpriced, and even the houses in the lower wards are asking huge sums.” Dr. Burdell drew a card and then leaned forward and lowered his voice. “Recently I purchased several hundred acres of marsh across the harbor, in Elizabeth, New Jersey. I believe one day the area will be as important to shipping and commerce as the port of New York. The city’s wharves are rotting, and boats are lined up out to the Narrows with no place to berth.”

      Emma reflected upon his words, shifting the fan of her cards. She wondered if he thought that she and her daughters should move to the swamps of New Jersey. “My, I had no idea!” she said brightly. “To think that our city shall just expand forever outward, unfurling like the sails on a ship! But I am looking for a home, not a wharf, and I am afraid I do not have enough knowledge to speculate in land,” she said politely, for such speculation did not include a parlor for afternoon tea.

      “I only suggest this venture to those who are wealthy enough or clever enough to take such a risk. I have already seen my own money return a profit four-fold, and there is more to be had. Of course I understand if you are hesitant.”

      “Well,” she said, deferring, “I do have a large sum at my disposal, but I reserve it for solid things.”

      “It was not so long ago that my house on Bond Street was a farm, and now it is in the heart of town. Those who hold on to the past do not see the future beneath their feet. I would be glad to take you one day to see the land across the river.” Emma listened with courteous attention, wondering what the advantage might be of a journey to a distant marshland, instead determining, upon her return, to wander down Bond Street, her keener interest being his townhouse, at number 31.

      One morning in August, Dr. Burdell did not appear on the verandah, and days went by without so much as a note. Believing he had returned to New York, Emma later spotted him at another hotel, absorbed in a business conference with another gentleman. The two men made an uncharacteristic coupling: Dr. Burdell was attired in a suit the color of flint, and the other man wore green gabardine and a yellow cravat. They sat huddled together, animated by the topic of railroads or land or rotted docks. Disturbed by his absence, she considered taking up with another escort. Other men had approached her, mostly older men, widowers, gouty, with pink flesh that rippled around their collars, and stomachs that bloated under expensive silk vests. They greeted her, bowing a little too low, and leering, as if she were a stage girl. She decided that she would only succumb to spending an evening on the arm of such a man as a last resort.

      After Dr. Burdell became elusive, Emma began to plan. She evaluated his qualities: he was around forty-five, with a smooth complexion and thick lips. He was handsome, not classically so, but in the way that men are allowed, with features that slowly align with age, and creases that deepen the personality of the wearer. He had dark eyes that squinted often, indicating that he was judging the value of what he saw. He was tall and well built. He crossed and uncrossed his legs nervously, revealing strong muscles under his freshly pressed suit.

      As Emma sat at a large looking glass in her room, mounting her hair into careful twists, she thought about her future and envisioned Dr. Burdell’s townhouse on Bond Street. She imagined herself the mistress of it, smartening his surroundings with taste and flair. The bridesmaids’ dresses, she mused, tulle and pearls for her daughters. A May wedding, with ornamental wreaths of dogwood before the entry of Grace Church. A starched serving girl, a cook who can prepare a proper duck.

      The August days grew shorter, and with each darker nightfall, her fears returned. Augusta had failed to attract any of the single young men who strolled about the country lanes with tittering debutantes in pursuit, while Helen was followed by droves of earnest schoolboys.

      Toward the end of their stay, Dr. Burdell sent an invitation to join him for dinner. Emma promptly accepted. She dressed in yellow silk, with diamonds at the rounded bodice, cut low at the neck. Helen wore a maize and grenadine dress balanced on steel hoops; Augusta’s dress had flounced ruffles edged in lace, studded by bouquets of roses, terminating in white fringe. Dr. Burdell appeared with the flourish of a chrysanthemum in his lapel.

      In the middle of dinner, his gaze wandered across the dining room. “There are some investors here,” he said, placing his napkin on the table, “who are joining me in one of my land ventures. I shall need a moment to speak with them.” He excused himself and crossed the dining room, staying at the men’s table for the length of the meal. When he returned, the girls had finished dessert and were cross and bored. Mrs. Cunningham sent them to bed, and Dr. Burdell asked her to join him for a walk in the garden. They strolled, arm in arm, along brick paths that glowed in the moonlight while fireflies dotted the lawn.

      “I am anxious to see you when you return to New York,” he said, with a sudden seriousness.

      “That would be delightful,” she replied nonchalantly. A path led them inside a formal garden enclosed by boxwood. Emma stopped and fingered the blade of a sundial whose base was wound, serpent-like, with ivy. The fragrance of honeysuckle blended with the scent of rose water pressed against the white skin of her bosom. Harvey Burdell’s eyes flashed seductively. He grabbed her, pressing into her with a lingering kiss. She separated after a calculated measure of time. It is done, she thought. But she would not press any gain too soon.

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