that if Augusta would only comb her hair, or tie her ribbons tighter, or smile brightly when spoken to, a handsome husband would be conjured, the way the shape of a face appears in the froth of summer clouds.
The carriage stalled while a slow mule dragged stones to a building site, setting off an upheaval of dust. Large blocks of granite stood in the middle of Washington Street. There was not an avenue in New York that was not covered with scaffolding. Wherever there had been an empty lot, holding little more than a stray goat or a few scraggly fruit trees, there was now a gaping black hole.
The open windows brought little air. Emma dabbed her forehead with a lace handkerchief as beads of perspiration snaked along the rim of her bonnet and welled in the crevices of her corset. “Driver, please hurry along, our steamer is boarding,” Emma called, rapping on the partition with her parasol. “Couldn’t you quicken the pace by using the whip?” she called again, when the carriage did not move. The Albany steamer departed at two, and she feared they would miss the boat.
“Ma’am, whipping the horse won’t get you there faster. There’s ten ships leaving every afternoon, and only one avenue to the wharf. It’s not my concern if your boat sets sail without you. Happens every day,” he said, without lifting the reins.
“I would hate to miss our boat because you feared striking a horse,” Emma said, fanning herself. Soon, the horses began clopping forward again at an infuriatingly slow pace until they finally made their way through a snarl of wagons to the docks. The carriage swung onto a pier that was piled high with exotic goods stamped from abroad: rum and sugar from the West Indies and barrels marked with oriental symbols, fragrant with spices from the East. Emma pushed her daughters out of the carriage. Helen and Augusta popped opened their parasols against the sun.
“Hurry, and unload our trunks. We don’t have a moment to spare,” she commanded, pacing while the stevedores tagged their bags. The steamboat loomed at the edge of the wharf, blocking the water view. The boat’s engine radiated heat, offsetting the cool breeze on the river. A whistle screamed the last call and the smokestack blew a thick spiral of carbon.
With a sense of urgency, Emma rushed her daughters up the gangway, the last ones to board. On deck, Emma scanned the doors for her berth. During the summer, the city became enveloped by a pestilential haze, and entire neighborhoods stewed in the heat. Inhabitants of tumbledown houses threw the contents of chamber pots out the windows, along with ashes, rotten vegetables, and rum bottles, and typhus rose up from the swamps, filling the fever sheds of Bellevue Hospital. In the fall, the lease on her house would be up, and by the end of the year, her money would be gone. Without a husband, there was no one to turn to, so she gambled on leaving the hot city for Saratoga, in search of an unattached gentleman. It was a matter of survival.
Each morning, breakfast at the Congress Hall Hotel was served on the verandah beside emerald lawns, cool with dew. Afterward, Emma and her daughters strolled along the shady lanes, lined with dainty cottages in the Gothic or Grecian style. They received attention from passing men, who lifted their hats in greeting. Emma took note of which ones were widowed or single, handsome or divorced. Augusta wandered into the fields in search of daisies. Helen wore a new straw hat studded with buds and lemon ribbons. Young boys bicycled past her, stopped and pedaled back slowly, circling like bees.
One day in early July, Emma sat on a chaise, penning correspondence. A waiter brought a silver pitcher of iced tea lined with sprigs of mint. A breeze rustled the girls’ dresses. A man approached and stood before them stiffly, in formal relief against the billowing lawns. He seemed older than Emma by a decade, in his midforties, firmly built, with dark skin and a firm musculature, his black hair carefully groomed and oiled. He tipped his hat.
“How do you do. May I introduce myself?” He bowed and presented a spray of violets wrapped in yellow tissue, purchased at the hotel concession, and offered the bouquet to Emma. “I am Dr. Harvey Burdell.”
She lifted her hand to accept, squinting to see him clearly against the sun. “For me? Why, thank you!” she trilled, offering her hand. “I am Emma Cunningham, and these are my daughters, Augusta and Helen.” He made another bow in the direction of the girls.
“Good morning, Dr. Burdell,” intoned Augusta and Helen with a schoolgirl’s training, tinged with boredom. Helen was eating a berry tart and wiped the stains from her lips. Augusta faded into the landscape in a blue gingham smock and fawn-colored gloves.
“Please, sit down,” Emma said gaily, waving at a bench. Dr. Burdell sat and placed his hat beside him. She noticed that it was a fashionable height: an inch higher and he would be a dandy or a ruffian, an inch shorter, a clerk.
“Are you having a pleasant start to this agreeable morning?” he asked awkwardly, as if he were grasping for an appropriate phrase to describe the shimmering day.
“It couldn’t be more splendid!” said Emma. “There are such marvelously cool breezes. Do you stay here often?”
“I come to the Congress Hall Hotel every year. I have a dental practice in New York and I try to get away during the summer months, if I can.” He pulled at his collar, which chafed, leaving a red rash.
“Are you the dentist on Union Square?” she inquired, recognizing the name from advertisements.
“My brother, also a dentist, had an office on Union Square. He is now deceased. My office is at 31 Bond Street, where I also live.”
“Bond Street! My favorite shops are near Bond Street!” She calculated to reveal little of herself, except, perhaps, that she appreciated fine things.
“I live there with my housekeeper,” he said earnestly. “I am ready to sell my house, but the commercial rents near Broadway have risen dramatically. The prices just keep going up.” He blinked often. He had told her much: that he was an awkward man, that he was a bachelor, and that he was rich. “I gather you are from New York?” he asked, glancing at the girls.
“My departed husband,” interjected Emma, fluttering a fan across her chest, “had a mansion in Brooklyn—on Jay Street. His illness carried so many unfortunate memories that I chose to sell it after his death.”
“I am so sorry,” Dr. Burdell replied, gravely.
“I am looking to buy a townhouse,” she continued. “I now lease a house on Twenty-fourth Street near the London Terrace. It is so difficult nowadays to find a suitable address.”
“You would be foolish to part with your money in haste. Homes in the fashionable districts in Manhattan are much overpriced.” Dr. Burdell continued, “Opportunities abound in the outlying areas.” He dropped his voice, as if this fact was a secret, known only to insiders, and he winked, in a silly way. He had a strong jaw, a full head of black hair, a sturdy build, and intense dark eyes.
“I wish I had someone as wise as you to advise me.” Emma sighed.
He appeared to be flattered by the compliment. Flustered, he patted his hands on the thighs of his dark trousers and stood, lifting his hat, ready to retreat. “Do you bet on horses?” he asked quickly. “Would you and your daughters do me the honor of joining me for a day at the racetrack?”
“We would be delighted,” murmured Emma, letting her eyes convey her pleasure.
Dr. Burdell accompanied Emma and her daughters to the races, where the women paraded with parasols among the fashionable crowd. When the thoroughbreds thundered the course, a current of excitement surged through the spectators, but Dr. Burdell paid more attention to Emma than to the horses bursting from the gate. Emma bet on several and she clapped
