wondering if he thought she was worth that large a sum. She decided it was best not to reply, for he would guess that he had hit the number close to the mark, exposing her wealth and stature.
Dr. Burdell scratched his chin, summing her up. “We were speaking about our own situation. I am preoccupied with important business at the moment and am in no position to marry right away. I cannot press events. I have a large sum of money at stake, which, if all goes as planned, will soon see a most lucrative return.”
“What is the use of money if it comes into conflict with personal happiness?”
“When speaking of your daughters, you have just implied that you consider a successful marriage to be one where money is of utmost importance. I would think you would see fit to dispense with hypocrisy.”
She was startled by his abrupt turn. She was not used to a man who disregarded the dance of courtship, with its delicate art of concealment.
“Perhaps I can make a suggestion,” said Dr. Burdell, more gently now. “There are often solutions when one is not blinded by convention. My housemistress, Mrs. Jones, has just departed, leaving the upper floors of my house vacant. You and your daughters could come and live at 31 Bond Street. I need a refined woman to oversee my home. It is not an uncommon arrangement, and in the eyes of the outside world, it would not compromise your integrity. You and your daughters might find my house most suitable.”
Stunned, Emma was not sure whether to be insulted or pleased. A bachelor sharing the upper part of his house with a widow was not uncommon, although the widow was usually an elderly woman, with thick legs and a sagging jowl. “A housemistress? For pay?” she asked.
“You could have the rooms without rent; in exchange, you would oversee the servants. I could help you with your investments,” he added gently. “I could offer the protection of a fine home, and we might consider the suitability of marriage at a convenient date, possibly by the spring.”
Emma sensed a window opening where previously doors had been shut, and this sounded very much like a marriage proposal, although an unconventional one. Her lease was soon up, and her funds were perilously low, and there were few options she could afford as grand as the house on Bond Street. The term “arrangement” could mean many things. “Bond Street is a very respectable location,” she said carefully. “My daughters are very active, and I should need the parlors to entertain on their behalf.” She hoped to sound skeptical.
“My patients use the parlor as a waiting room during visiting hours, usually in the morning. After that, the rooms would be at your service. You shall consider my offer then?” he asked. He gazed into Emma’s eyes as if he was searching for approval. “I have something to tell you if you can keep a secret,” he added. “I have a great deal of money invested with a group of prominent financiers, even a politician or two. If my interests prevail, my land in New Jersey, which I have spoken about, will be very valuable. I must conclude my business by the end of the year, or nothing will be gained, for there are others with interests in opposition.”
He lifted a curl from her cheek. “If you were to turn over to me, say, a sum of ten thousand dollars, your investment would help to speed the process. I will certainly see that you—no I say ‘we’—shall enjoy the most handsome returns.”
Startled by the sudden request for money, she stalled. “Well, sir, this seems to be a separate issue. As I have told you, I am not interested in land speculation.”
“There is no need to make a hasty decision. However, I would like to invite you on a tour of my land,” he said. “I can assure you that any investment will grow greatly. With my own profits, we might build a larger, more modern home on Fifth Avenue.”
Mrs. Cunningham stopped abruptly. “We’d live on Fifth Avenue?” she asked, then color spread across her face when she realized that he had said “we” and she had automatically assumed possession of their next home.
“Well, why not!” he answered jovially. “Fifth Avenue has the largest lots, and plenty of room to build. Soon enough, we will need a bigger residence.”
They had reached the theatre and they entered, arm in arm. Dr. Burdell encountered acquaintances and patients who nodded in greeting. He proudly made introductions. She knew she appeared attractive at his side. The curtain came up, and the actors marched across the stage spouting Shakespeare, wearing embroidered costumes, and gesturing from the turrets of cardboard castles, but she could barely concentrate on the play. She thought about his offer, and the need to maintain appearances, wary not to make any decision that might compromise her. His enthusiasm for their future plans belied his hesitation toward marriage. Her feminine instinct told her that if she were to move in with him at Bond Street, and show him the satisfaction of an intimate domestic life, they would certainly be married by spring.
The play ended with a blaze of trumpets, and the audience rose to the exits. Samuel, Dr. Burdell’s driver, sat waiting atop his carriage outside the theatre. They got in and drove to her home on Twenty-fourth Street. In front of her house, Dr. Burdell engaged in a parting kiss that was more ardent than the others, and she skillfully edged out of the carriage, leaving him longing for more. A mansion on Fifth Avenue, she thought, would be a brilliant place for weddings.
October 1856
Visiting the marshland of New Jersey on an October morning to examine real estate was an activity like going to the opera—a refined form of leisure wrapped tightly in the concept of wealth. Samuel picked her up on Twenty-fourth Street and brought her to the riverbank at the foot of Christopher Street. Emma carried an overnight bag. Samuel would ferry her across the river, and Dr. Burdell would meet her on the other side to give her a tour of his property. He would offer her a piece to buy, and she intended to accept.
After much thought and discussion, she had put aside a sum with which to purchase some land—it was money left by her husband for Augusta’s dowry. Dr. Burdell had convinced her that this land investment would swiftly gain in value. Although she was taking a gamble, she felt assured that the transaction would be successful and would secure a significant gain. Instead of feeling anxious, she felt closer to her goal, as if she were a bird gliding gracefully in circles, high above her prey.
Emma sat on the deck on a canvas chair, settling herself among the crude fittings of the small craft. There were just the two of them on the boat. Samuel steered silently, like a sentinel, his dark skin outlined against the sky at the stern. The boat glided past the dockyards, glassworks, distilleries, and furnaces of Greenwich Village, following the river motion south. The city split away as the river opened into the wide mouth of the harbor, swelling like an upturned silver dish.
They sailed toward New Jersey, into the narrow strait of the Kill van Kull, and the boat seemed lost in miles of grassland. Occasionally Emma looked up from her book, squinting into the blue and green expanse. Miles away, in the distance, a southbound train left a smudge of black against the horizon. The whistle blew, setting off a flock of egrets rising on the wing, thousands of them, spreading across the reeds, like a fluttering cloud.
Emma asked Samuel questions: “How far do the marshes stretch? How far is Newark? Do any roads pass over this land?” Samuel, wary, gazed toward the horizon and answered in monosyllables, only saying what was necessary. Emma kept her hand to her brow, shielding the glare. “Which part is Dr. Burdell’s land? she asked.
Samuel pointed to a promontory of discarded shells on the marsh side of New Jersey, “Past that ridge, it was the Indian’s road,”
