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, animatedby 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 inyellow 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
“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, animatedby 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 inyellow 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
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