The Address, page 22
Renzo pointed to the description at the bottom right. “American Insurance Company, Albany, New York. It’s dated November 1885.”
“What is this stuff on it?” She ran her finger lightly over several dark and crusty stains. “Guess these can’t be framed. Too bad. I like how it’s different from the others.”
She picked up the tube and heard a rattle. When she turned it over, a piece of metal dropped out, along with some kind of stick.
“What on earth?”
Bailey picked up the metal and held it to the light. About five inches in length, it was covered partly in the same dark substance the drawings were. But the clean half glinted in the light. A dragon’s face or maybe an alligator had been shaped in gold and silver with a delicate crosshatching.
She offered it to Renzo.
His eyes grew wide. “Wait here. Holy shit. Put it down really carefully and don’t touch it and I’ll be right back.”
She placed it on the top of the trunk and leaned down to get a better look. She was tempted to scratch away the yucky crust and see what was beneath, but Renzo was back a moment later, holding a newspaper.
“I saw this a couple of days ago. Look at this.”
An old black-and-white photo showed a knife with a carved metal handle partially pulled out of a sheath.
The sheath that was right in front of them.
“What is this?” She began reading as Renzo explained.
“Some construction workers found the knife a week ago in Central Park, when they were excavating for Strawberry Fields. It’s really old, from Tibet, and disappeared from the collection of a wealthy family named Rutherford in the 1880s.”
“And it was only just discovered?”
“Yes. They’re trying to figure out how it got there. Right now it’s at the Met, being examined, as there are no descendants of the Rutherford family left to claim it. It says here that the sheath hasn’t been recovered.”
She stared at the object. “It was in Theodore Camden’s trunk, who was stabbed to death in November 1885. The same month as on the drawings.”
“What about this?” Renzo reached over and picked up the stick that had fallen out of the same tube. “Some kind of drawing tool?”
It reminded her of a rook piece from a chess set, one that had been worn smooth over time. “That’s not a pencil.” Bailey turned to Renzo in horror. “You’re holding Theodore Camden’s missing finger.”
“What?” Renzo croaked.
“The bone from his finger! It was cut off during his murder and never found. They thought it might have been taken as some kind of grisly souvenir.”
To his credit, he didn’t drop the bone to the floor. Instead, he waited until Bailey had grabbed two tissues from his office and laid the bone on one and the sheath on the other, before carefully folding them up, like a pair of newborns being swaddled.
“The sheath must be worth a ton of money,” said Bailey. “The Met is going to flip out when they see that we’ve found this.”
“The paper says the knife is worth around half a million dollars. It’s from the sixteenth century.”
“To think the knife and sheath have been not three hundred yards from each other all this time.”
“I wonder how they got separated.”
A draft ran over the back of her neck and she shivered. “I wonder how his finger ended up down here.”
Together, they went back through all the trunks, but more carefully. Bailey checked inside the pockets of the dresses, in the very corners of each trunk, looking for clues. In Minnie Camden’s trunk she took out a small red silk purse edged with metallic gold lace.
Inside was a piece of paper, as delicate as the crust of a crème brûlée.
My dear Christopher,
I have been promised that you will receive this letter on your twenty-first birthday. I know it may be a shock, but I am proud to call you my son, even if you may be ashamed to see me as your mother. Indeed, I am, and everything I have done, I have done for you. To give you a better life. When you were a boy, I loved you and held you and perhaps the fragile memories of that time still remain. No child should be denied what is true. Your father is Theodore Camden. I hope now you are twenty-one you are able to understand the circumstances that prevented you from knowing the truth. And to forgive.
The name below was illegible, but Bailey was certain it began with an S.
She showed Renzo the letter, shaking with exhilaration. “The plot thickens.”
“Christopher wasn’t a random ward.” He studied it closely. “You were right. He was Theodore Camden’s son.”
“And Sara’s.” Her cheeks burned with pleasure at the acknowledgment. She was a Camden, as was her father and her grandfather. This proved it. “I knew it. Doesn’t this look like the letter S?”
He squinted. “Not sure of that. But maybe. Where did you find it?”
“In Minnie Camden’s purse. Or at least the purse was in Minnie Camden’s trunk.”
“Then maybe he was Minnie’s child.”
“Why would she keep that a secret, though? Makes no sense. In any event, that’s definitely not the word Minnie at the bottom.” The more she thought about the implications of the letter, the faster her heart beat. Excitement sizzled through her body.
She handed him the sheath and the bone. “Take these and put them in a safe place. First thing tomorrow, I’ll go back to the library and find out more about Sara Smythe and the murder.”
“Shouldn’t we contact the Met, tell them what you’ve discovered?”
“We will, just not yet. You know what this means, don’t you?”
Renzo eyed her warily.
“It means that I am a descendant of Theodore Camden. I’m sure of it.”
“Be careful what you wish for.”
She gave him a quick peck on the cheek. The touch was electric. She hadn’t meant it that way, just as a friendly, celebratory gesture, but he felt it, too, and pulled back.
“Sorry, didn’t mean to do that.” Her face got hot.
“It’s okay. Take it slow, though. Don’t rush to conclusions.”
Was he talking about their friendship or their findings?
Either way, caution had never been her strong point.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
New York City, July 1885
Sara opened her eyes. It was dark outside, and while the pain had subsided briefly, she knew it would be back. During the lull, she tried to take in where she was. The room wasn’t in the Charity Hospital, she was sure of that. The bed was hard and the blanket rough and she didn’t see any other women in the throes of childbirth. The only other woman in the room, an old lady with a vacant stare and no teeth, got up and turned her back to squat over a waste pail, singing an off-key dirge about the devil. She was still in the asylum.
The evening turned to day and back into evening, and Sara fought for breath and life and pushed. The nurses for the most part ignored her. When one loomed over her with a grim mouth, Sara grabbed her wrist.
“I need to be taken to the Charity Hospital to have the baby. To the ward with unwed mothers.”
“What do you know about that?” The nurse pulled out of her grip. “In any event, they don’t take crazies there. You’d disturb the rest of them.”
“I wouldn’t, I know that’s where I belong. Ask Nurse Alden.”
“You’ve been saying that the entire time you’ve been here. Enough, luv. You checked in here as a Mrs. Smythe. That place is for unwed mothers.”
She would have laughed if her situation weren’t so dire. “It’s too early to have the baby, isn’t it?”
“I don’t know anything about that. You’ll have to ask the doctor.”
Just then a wave of pain swept over her and she forgot about everything except the muscles and nerves in her body, straining in a way that seemed physically impossible.
Finally, the doctor arrived. Two nurses flanked him. The man was young, with bright blue eyes that darted around the room, taking everything in. He was from the outside and practically smelled of fear.
A nurse pointed at Sara. “She started up last night; we didn’t know she was with child.”
“How could you not know?” The doctor sat on the edge of her bed and took out a stethoscope, which he placed against her belly. A rush of embarrassment was replaced by a sense of hope. Perhaps he could help.
“She didn’t tell us nothing. We can’t keep track of everyone in here, all sixteen hundred.”
“Can she speak?” He glanced up at the nurses.
Thankfully, she was in between contractions. “I can speak, Doctor.”
He looked down at her, startled. “You’re English?”
He had a familiar accent of his own. “And you’re Welsh.”
“Indeed. Now, why didn’t you tell anyone about your predicament?”
Another cramp threatened and she winced in pain.
“Get her some water, please.” The nurses moved on his command.
“I didn’t know what they’d do to me.”
“Rather a ghastly place here, no?”
“Yes. I was hoping I could be taken to the Charity Hospital on the island, the ward for unwed mothers.”
“You don’t have a husband?”
“No.” Her cheeks grew warm from shame. How far she’d fallen.
“Why were you put here in the asylum?”
“I’m not sure. They said I was acting funny, that I stole something. But I don’t remember doing it. I was with child at the time; maybe my mind wasn’t right from that.”
She should never have mentioned the theft. He straightened his spine. “I’m sorry to hear that. But I’m afraid it’s too late to go to the hospital. You’ll have to have the baby here.”
“It’s so early. I didn’t think it would come until August.”
The cramp increased until she couldn’t think or speak. “Please don’t go yet,” she whispered. Tears of self-pity poured down her cheeks. “What will happen to the baby after?”
“I don’t know. This is my first week and I’m not sure how it all works just yet. But don’t worry about any of that right now. You need to keep your strength up so that you can deliver the baby.” He stood.
“Where are you from in Wales?” She didn’t want him to go just yet.
“Swansea.”
“Is it lovely? It sounds lovely.”
“It’s by the sea.”
“Do you miss it?” She clenched her teeth, trying to keep them from chattering.
“That’s enough talk. I’ll check on that water for you.”
“Please don’t go. Please. Please help me.”
He nodded. “I’ll do everything I can.”
After he strode away, she burst into sobs. She’d been doing so well for herself, in charge of her own life, running a giant building and its staff, and now she was helpless, trapped in a terrible place with no way out, nothing but pain and anguish pulsating around her. The kind manner of the doctor only served to remind her of all that she’d lost.
“Stop wailing.” The nurses had returned. One lifted up her head and poured water into her mouth from a dirty tin cup, not caring that it spilled around the sides and dribbled down her chin and neck.
The water tasted metallic, like something medicinal had been added to it. She tried to ask them what they’d given her, but her tongue became heavy and thick. A sea of sensations followed, but she couldn’t figure out where the noises came from or where she ended and the rest of the world began. She dreamed of the baby and of her mother, the two curled up in bed together. In her vision, she drew closer, wanting to pick up the baby and hold her, but she drew back in horror when she realized they were both made of ice. Cold to the touch, not human at all.
She opened her eyes to the harsh summer sun streaming through the window. The room was empty; the humid air reeked of mold and rotting vegetables. Her entire body ached, as if she’d been trampled on by a horse, and her breasts were sore and heavy. She looked to either side of the bed for a crib, for some sign of her child.
“There you are, then.” The doctor stepped into the room. His eyes had shadows under them. “How do you feel?”
She tried to sit up, but her muscles refused.
“Don’t move. You’ll need to rest.”
“The baby?”
He didn’t answer her question. “The nurses said that you’ll need to rejoin the other patients in a day or two. I tried to get them to give you a week to recover, but I’m afraid Superintendent Dent would have none of it.”
She didn’t care about that. “But where’s the baby?”
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Smythe. The baby died.”
Sara blinked through her tears. She hadn’t admitted to herself how eager she had been to meet this creature, even if she was bringing it into a world of pain and misery. “How? I felt it inside me. Was it too early?”
He frowned. “It was deformed. Horribly deformed. To be honest, it’s best it died, for otherwise it would be brought up in a place like this, and you wouldn’t want that, would you?”
She didn’t answer. “Can I see it?”
“It will be buried on the island. A boy was what you had. They bury them here. It was better you didn’t see him. Something had gone terribly wrong.”
Nurse Garelick’s beating had damaged the baby, just as she’d feared.
He reached out and patted her hand. “In any event, you’ll need to try to get stronger quickly. Don’t let this bother you. Better this way, I assure you.”
She turned away and covered her eyes with her hand. The baby had died and the only thing ahead of her was more pain, more sitting, more cruelty. The child she’d carried, Theo’s child, was now under the dirt somewhere on the island, in one of the unmarked graves she and Natalia had seen behind the Charity Hospital. No markers, just mounds of dirt that settled down as the bodies and flesh and bones melted down to nothing.
She retched and the doctor jumped up. “I’ll have the nurse bring you a bucket.”
Sara listened as his footsteps grew faint, replaced by the sounds of her own grief.
Sara had lasted two days back in her block, not talking, even to Natalia, not eating, and, more important, refusing to make mats, before she was dragged away and placed in a cell on the top floor, the same one she’d been taken to after Nurse Garelick’s beating.
Poor Natalia had tried to comfort her, and urged her to pull back from the dark place she’d been driven to by the baby’s death, but Sara would have none of it. She had been carved open by the pain and confusion of the birth, and there was no solace to be found. Not on Blackwell’s Island.
She lay curled up on the cot most of the day, lifting her head to watch the mice skitter across the floor and devour the tray that had been shoved through the opening under the door. How lovely to exist on instinct alone, to not know anything of the outside world and its delights and scandals. If she could have killed herself, she would have. One of the nurses had threatened to send her to the Lodge if she didn’t start obeying orders. “They’ll toss you around like a rag doll, and you’ll be screaming to be let back to your mates in no time,” she’d said, sneering. Sara had turned over to face the wall, and since then, the food had stopped.
She’d lost track of time. Maybe a week had gone by since the baby had died, maybe five days. Maybe five months. None of it mattered anymore.
The door latch clicked.
“You’ll stay in here until we know where to put you. Don’t mind the dead body over there. She won’t bother you.”
“Thank you, Nurse Cotter. I have your name right, don’t I?”
There was a long pause, long enough to make Sara open her eyes.
“That’s right.”
“Very well. Thank you, Nurse Cotter.”
The nurse made a clucking noise and slammed the door shut.
“Well, she’s a delight.”
Sara turned over and examined her new cellmate. The woman had survived the bathing process fairly unscathed. Her bangs were still curly and damp and her neck and cheeks red.
The woman thrust her hand out. “Well, hello there. I’m Nellie Brown.”
Sara closed her eyes. Poor child. She was yet to be broken.
“You all right?”
Sara hoped she’d get the hint and move to her side of the room. But no luck. Instead, she moved closer, studying Sara like a work of art in a museum. Which, in a way, was apt. All hard marble and stone, weighed down with no separation between her and the cot, her pedestal.
“You don’t look well. Is there anything I can do for you?”
Sara couldn’t help it. She laughed.
“Was that funny?”
Sara remembered the energy she’d brought with her to this place, trying to sort it all out and determine where she stood, how to get out. “You oughtn’t bother.” Her voice was weak.
“Oughtn’t bother to do what?”
“Much of anything.” Sara sighed. The girl was not going to be ignored. “There’s no point.”
The girl walked to the window and looked out. “I can see the city from here.”
“Seems so close, doesn’t it?”
Nellie moved to her cot and sat down, tucking the calico dress under her legs. “Do they not give you anything more than this to wear?”
Sara shook her head.
“Even in winter?”
“We get coats to wear outside on the mandatory walks.”
“Why are you here?”
She certainly got right to the point.
“I got into trouble at my work and ended up here. I’m not sure how.”
