But the worry was not gone from her eyes, and he was terrified of disappointing her. He would go to the bank in the morning for the loan. There would be a slow reduction of niceties, of the things she was accustomed to, like flowers and chocolates and jewelry he brought home as a surprise, and their trips to Hastings in the summer months, where she grew a profusion of roses that rippled along trellises around the cottage.
“You are a courageous woman to be married to me, Elisabeth Clinton Clinton.”
“Brave or foolish, it is the way I want it,” she said back to him.
“Let’s hope our roof holds out. With a new mortgage, that nasty leak will have to wait.” He had been planning to hire a workman to make repairs to the roof of the townhouse after the winter thaw.
“If the roof fails, we’ll live under the stars.”
September 1856, New York City
Emma sat toward the back of Taylor’s, a ladies saloon, facing the plate glass, watching the men assemble on the street like black figurines, checking their watches. As soon as she had returned to New York from Saratoga, Dr. Burdell had sent her a stream of invitations—to tour upper Manhattan in his carriage, to dine at Delmonico’s, and this evening, to the theatre, to see the Booth brothers in a Shakespeare play. It was a glorious evening, so clear that the city was framed by an iridescent sky and the windows along Broadway shone blood red with the setting of the New Jersey sun.
She sipped from a crystal glass, tasting the raisin flavor of a strong brandy, and poked at the flakes of a crème Napoleon with the prong of a tiny gold fork as yellow cream flowed from its crevices. She lifted each forkful to her mouth carefully, without altering her posture or the balance of her enormous hat.
I am so tired of widowhood, she thought. She had met her deceased husband, George Cunningham, when she was only fifteen, Helen’s age. He was a prosperous merchant, more than twice her age, and he had turned to watch her when she passed him on the Brooklyn Promenade one Saturday evening. She went to the railing, looking out at the harbor, and he came over to point out the ships. He reached in his pocket and offered her a dollar. “Would you walk with me?” he asked. He was more distinguished than the mechanics and seamen that strolled along the river walk and offered local girls a trinket to hook arms for the length of the waterfront, and at the end of the walk they’d offer another trinket for a kiss. Somehow she felt safe on this gentleman’s arm, his elbow at her side, in wool broadcloth, scented with fine pipe tobacco. He’d gaze far away across the milky harbor, then back at her, with a caring glance.
They sauntered arm in arm until they reached the end near the sailors’ bars by the ferry slip. He bought two tickets for the boat, and they went to Manhattan, to the Broadway Hotel, which she thought to be the finest place she had ever seen, with a large room that dripped with damask, and he cuddled up against her all night, like a man would a wife.
The experience was a far cry from the weathered frame house on Myrtle Avenue near the Naval Yard, where her father reigned over his children with a wooden board from the broken picket fence. He beat her with it when she returned the following day, never asking where she’d been all night. Rigid with determination, Emma brought all her clothes in a canvas bag when she met Mr. Cunningham the next day, and she never went home again.
He put her up in the city, in nice hotels, and soon after, in a house. When Augusta was born, he rented a larger one on Irving Place, and he never failed to pay the rent. He remained with his wife in his large mansion on the Brooklyn side of the river. “Take pity on me,” he would say, “she is sickly,” if Emma tearfully implored him to stay longer after a short visit. His wife was an unseen specter, frail and nervous, that hovered for years until she finally passed away when Augusta was seven and his second child, Helen, a toddler. After a ten-month absence, which Emma took to be a proper mourning period, George reappeared and brought them into his Brooklyn house, a gloomy pile, filled with the odor of dust and decay and room after room of family heirlooms. She became its mistress; it was more like a mausoleum, having encased an invalid for years.
They married quietly. Afterward, George retreated into his study with a tumbler of scotch and rarely emerged. His company, Cunningham & Cunningham, bottled spirits, liquor being the family fortune and its downfall. In a short matter of time, George’s drinking accelerated his own bad health, and he accumulated debts while casks of whiskey remained untended at the wharves. In 1854, he went out west to recoup his fortune and gambled the rest of his inheritance on prospects in San Francisco, returning with less than he started with, the gold rush being mostly over. He caught a feverish ailment there and died of complications from it when he returned, like a plague that claimed those who chased after gold. Her husband’s decline had seemed so fast—as if a demon had foreclosed upon his soul, secretly targeting her as well.
But Harvey Burdell is so solid. He rarely drinks. Emma’s eye was trained casually toward the restaurant window, watching for Dr. Burdell’s arrival. If he came early, she would put on her gloves slowly, smoothing the soft leather on each finger, making him wait. When he did show up, he was twenty minutes late, which sobered her mood like the bitter swig of a root tea. She summoned her gaiety and joined him on the twilit street between the swaying of women’s hoops as the evening traffic thinned on Broadway.
They walked to the theatre, and he told her about his day, which included a difficult dental surgery, a story that lasted halfway to Astor Place. After his story was finished, they sauntered along in silence. After a long pause, Emma ventured to ask softly, “Why is it that you have never married?”
He gazed sternly ahead. “I have no reason to marry,” he answered. “At forty-six, I enjoy my solitary pursuits. I enjoy female companionship, but an independent arrangement suits me best.”
“I do not know what you mean,” she replied coolly, “by an ‘independent arrangement.’”
“Oh, yes you do, my dear,” he said dismissively. “I am not an anxious schoolboy, and you are not an ingenue. You are no doubt aware, at our age, that there is no need to hide behind convention. We can be free of the constraints that society places upon the young. There are many couples, quite prominent in New York, that remain unmarried, retaining their separate residences and who enjoy the physical side of marriage. It is a most sophisticated arrangement.”
The response stung. “I am indeed aware of such independent couples,” Emma said, choosing her words, carefully. “But I would have difficulty with such an arrangement myself. I have my daughters to think of. At their tender age, it is important that my actions stand as an example. They are still young, and I could not steer them toward marriage if I, myself, did not respect the vows.” He wants me, she thought, but is it love? For a moment she felt a twinge of panic, as if he had seen into her past. No, she assured herself, it was more likely that he had a bachelor’s dread of trespass, and she should tread lightly.
“As for your lovely daughters,” he replied, forcing a light tone, “a sensible parent requires only a large bank account to snare a successful suitor. And once that is secured, the job is done.” He laughed, clearly hoping to change the subject.
“It is not so simple as that,” she replied, her voice edging upward. “Even with means, a parent needs to be vigilant. This city provides many traps for young ladies. Many suitors are not what they seem. Some are scoundrels, intent upon a large dowry. A parent must protect a daughter’s interests.”
“If a suitor cared more for the fortune than the bride, he would need to be after a hundred thousand dollars to make it worth his while,” he said,
